


You Fall, I'll Catch You

by Laiquilasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Mention of Past Sexual Assault, Non Graphic, Omega John, Omega John Watson, Omega Verse, Omegaverse, Oral Sex, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2019-07-13 01:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16007210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: John Watson is looking for a place to stay. Sherlock Holmes is looking for a flat-mate. It should be an easy solution. Except that Sherlock Holmes is an alpha, John Watson is an omega, trying his hardest to pass as a beta......and John is hiding a secret.With society's view of unbonded pregnant omegas against them, John and Sherlock must try to overcome their own prejudices if they are to survive as flat-mates, as friends, and as more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Start another fic before finishing my WIPs? Here we go again! This time my ABO-verse rules change a little, but hopefully this will be clear as the fic goes on. 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading, you are the best x

“Who’d want me for a flatmate?” Sherlock looked up from his microscope.

“Ha,” Stamford chuckled. “Could have left off the ‘flat’ part, there.”

“Hm? Oh, very funny. Your wit never ceases to amaze me,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know where I stand on that, Stamford. I’m bonded to my work.”

“Yes, so you’ve said. What about another alpha, then? There’s always lads looking for a place to stay once they’ve left home, or uni.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t want a dominance battle in my front room.”

Mike shrugged. “You’ll just have to advertise, then. Beta-flatmate wanted. Idiots need not apply?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock capped the beaker he was working on. “The last thing I need right now is a distraction.”

 

*

 

John chewed his lip as he looked in the estate agency window. There wasn’t much in his price-range. Less when you considered he was about to be hit with a lot of expenditures. There was no way he could consider a flat-share. As soon as they realised...

He’d be kicked out for sure. No one wanted to be associated with someone like him. He knew it was ridiculous to even be in his position – he could still sort this out, it wasn’t too late.

But he knew what his decision would be, even before he knew for sure this was what would happen.

John left the high street, and headed for the park. He needed space to think. If he couldn’t find somewhere soon, his only real option now was to leave London, and he’d only just arrived. This wasn’t exactly what he’d planned -

“John? John Watson?”

He turned, eyebrows raising in surprise at the man on the bench. A face from the past, but a welcome one. He smiled.

And an hour later they were in a cab, on their way to see someone who was, apparently, also looking for a housing solution. 

 

*

 

Sherlock glanced up. And relaxed a fraction as he looked at the visitors. Stamford, back so soon, and... someone else.

 

_Soldier. Doctor. Tired. Stressed. Money worries. Family worries. Lots of family worries. Beta._

 

Ah. A solution, then. 

 

“John, this is Sherlock Holmes,” Stamford introduced them. “Sherlock, John Watson.”

John nodded, keeping his distance, but Sherlock was already coming forward with a hand held out to shake. 

There was the tiniest hesitation.

So tiny it barely happened.

Possibly the man himself didn’t even know he had done it. It was equally possible that no one who wasn’t Sherlock Holmes would have noticed the pause. There was a fraction of a second’s hesitation before John lifted his hand and shook Sherlock’s. 

But it was enough. 

 

_~~Beta~~ _ _. Omega._

 

But... how?

Sherlock looked back at the lab table, and picked something up to cover the racing of his mind. The man didn’t look like an omega. He barely smelled like one. He had to be on scent blockers of some sort, but why? Why would an omega his age be on blockers? Why was he here about a flat? Why wasn’t he bonded?

There were too many questions.

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked, settling on a question that seemed relatively harmless.

John blinked. His stance adjusted minutely. He was definitely a soldier. And only recently discharged. An omega soldier? At least that explained why he needed somewhere to stay… “Erm. I’m sorry, what-”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” Sherlock said, staring at him, eyes flicking to the unbroken skin on the man’s neck, his ring-less hands, his greying hair. “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end... would that be a problem?”

“Problem... wait, are you-”

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?” Sherlock looked at him in the face, again. 

Handsome. Broken nose. But not beautiful and slight and feminine, as omegas usually were. John Watson was broad, and muscular, and masculine, and none of this made any sense at all. 

“Flatmates.” John swallowed. If Sherlock had been in doubt before, this small, silent, panic would have confirmed it. Omega, moving in with an alpha? It wasn’t done. It was never done. Stamford didn’t know John’s gender, that was the only explanation. He would never have suggested, otherwise...

“Obviously.” Sherlock didn’t smile, exactly, but he adjusted his face so it was slightly less standoffish. 

John frowned, just a touch. “Right. Ok. It’s only for a few weeks, you know? Until I get someone where permanent?” He was making that up. He needed a permanent place. But he didn’t want it to be with an alpha. Omega. Omega afraid.

Sherlock’s blood gave a slight rush at the possibility of sheltering an omega… a rush which quickly died as Sherlock internally rolled his eyes at himself. He wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.

Temporary worked, though. John Watson wasn’t outright refusing. He must be desperate. Sherlock was known to put people off within weeks. This was ideal. Temporary arrangement. Yes. That worked. 

“Fine. Temporary is… fine.”

“Ok then...” John adjusted his cuffs. “What’s the address?”

 

*

 

It wasn’t the smartest idea, John knew. He wasn’t stupid. This could go very sour very quickly. But, with any luck, he’d be out of the place in a few weeks, and somewhere... else. If anyone would have him. Really, his options were to live alone, or to try his sister. And she wasn’t exactly the sort of person John would choose to live with. 

He clenched his fists as he walked. He’d been found out.

That alpha - Sherlock Holmes - knew what he was. John had seen it in his eyes when they shook hands. Read it in his face. That look of curiosity. That _why aren’t you bonded_ look. That puzzlement over John’s scent, his build, his job history.

It was inconvenient. But not a disaster. He’d been read before. Usually by medical professionals who knew what they were looking at. His scent-blockers were prescribed by the army, and he had enough stockpiled to last him about a year. 

And he didn’t have heats to worry about. 

Living with an alpha wasn’t a smart idea. But if it was that or homelessness, John would take it. It was only for a few weeks, after all. 

He’d been living as a beta since he was eighteen, to the best of his abilities. There were some things you couldn’t avoid. Heats, for instance. But as long as you walked the walk, and didn’t smell too appealing, and you pulled your weight as if you were a beta, hardly anyone noticed.

John hated his secondary gender. He hated the expectations, the mess of heats, the way people thought you should be at home, cooking. He was as much a man as any beta or alpha.

Except, right now, there was one major difference.

John let himself back into his army hostel, and into his room.

He put his suitcase on the bed, and started gathering his things together, tipping what he didn’t need into the waste-bin. At the bottom of the bin, amongst the screwed-up bits of paper, and mars bar wrappers, were two thin strips of cotton and plastic, each with two pink lines showing on them.

If anyone found out, John would be riddled with shame. No, not if. When.

When.

Everyone was going to find out, sooner or later.

He’d just have to find somewhere to live, by himself, before Sherlock Holmes found out.

No one wanted the shame of living with a bondless omega. A so-called Fallen Omega. Especially not an alpha. No one wanted to be close to a ruined omega and their bastard to be.

John pinched between his eyes.

His fingers came back wet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes non-graphic depiction of sexual assault. Be aware of your own triggers.

John moved in. He took his single suitcase upstairs by himself, and Sherlock had a cup of tea waiting for him when he came back downstairs. He accepted it gratefully, making a mental note to get some decaf bags in as soon as he could.

Sherlock leaned against the kitchen counter. “You’ve got questions.”

“So have you,” John countered. He was quite aware of the long sleeves he had on beneath his shirt. It was too warm, and he wanted to roll the sleeves up, but the bite-marks up his arms were still red and angry-looking. It was just his luck that it was getting up to summer. He forced a smile. “You’ve got questions, right?”

“Yes.”

They were silent, for a moment.

John sipped his tea. “Ok, I’ll go first. Why’s there a skull on the mantlepiece?”

Sherlock looked up. “Friend of mine. Well. I say ‘friend’…” he put his mug down. “You’re a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Better than that – you’re an army doctor?”

John nodded, waiting for the inevitable questions. _How did you get into the army? Why doctor, not nurse? Why are you living on your own? Did something happen to your partner? Why? Why? Why?_

Sherlock pursed his lip before speaking again. “Are you still licensed to practice?”

John blinked. “What? Um. Yes. I just have to keep my insurance up, and I will. I want to work, so…”

“Good…” the alpha looked as if he was considering.

“I mean, I’ll get a job as soon as I can,” John hurriedly filled the silence. “I’m not going to shirk the rent, or anything –”

“That wasn’t what I was…” Sherlock waved a hand as if John’s words were in front of his eyes. “I have something to do, this afternoon, and… medical eyes might be helpful.”

“What is it?” John frowned.

“A crime scene.”

John’s mug stopped just in front of his mouth. “Crime scene?”

“Murder, actually. Difficult to squeeze some of forensics if you don’t have a doctorate. Not that I _need_ the help, you understand, it just makes my deductions more believable if they’re supported by a doctor.”

John suspected he was being insulted a little, but decided not to read into it. “You want me to come and look at a murder?”

“Yes. Wasn’t that clear?”

“We’ve only just met, and you’re asking me to go and look at a dead body with you? Don’t you usually save that sort of thing for a third date?” John teased. The part of him he thought of as his inner omega squirmed in delight at the chance to flirt.

Sherlock’s face went through a strange sort of spasm before the alpha caught it. “I – I – I… John, I…”

“I’m pulling your leg,” John sighed. It wasn’t disappointment he felt, just a sort of quiet resignation. “Is this what you do, then? Fight crime?”

“I aid the police when they’re out of their depth. Which is always. I consult. I’m a consulting detective.”

John shook his head, a grin growing again on his face. “…that’s not a thing.”

“I invented the term.”

“Right…” John didn’t know whether to laugh, or not. This man was the strangest alpha he’d ever met. He didn’t know whether to relax, or not. On the one hand, both of them knew the gender status of their flatmate. On the other, neither of them seemed to want to discuss it. If Sherlock was happy for John to continue pretending to be a beta, John was happy to carry on doing it.

 _But how long can that last_ , his brain nagged him. _You’re nearly ten weeks as it is, and eventually you’ll start showing, you know you will. Layers and jumpers won’t hide it forever. And then what?_

 _Yes, but I’ll be moved out by then_ , he told himself.

But the sick sort of nagging feeling remained, even as he put his shoes and jacket on, and followed Sherlock out of the door.

 

*

 

John was extra-glad that the early June day was cool, because they arrived on the crime scene to be greeted by a grey-haired and tired looking alpha detective, who accepted John’s arrival with a sort of weariness that told John that bringing a random doctor onto a scene was the least surprising thing Sherlock Holmes might have done.

“We need an on-call, actually,” Greg Lestrade said, not shaking hands as his arms were full of files. John was grateful. The detective inspector wasn’t John’s type, but he had the sort of easy attractiveness of any alpha, and John’s hormones were enough of a mess as it was. The detective nodded to himself. “This could work out quite well… any police experience, Doctor Watson?”

“Only military,” John said, stepping under the police tape that another officer held up for him. No one looked twice at him. Beta doctor, here to help on a case. Nothing special. Just how he liked to be.

“Mm, policework might not be so different from military,” Lestrade said. “I’ll get your details off Sherlock. Would be handy, you two living in the same flat…” the detective side-eyed John a little. “Where’d you two meet, again?”

“A friend introduced us,” John said. “Sherlock needed a flat-mate, I needed a flat.”

“Ah. I thought maybe you were… but yeah.”

“Mm?”

“Well, bonded to his work, isn’t he?” Lestrade nodded in Sherlock’s direction, where the alpha was arguing with someone in a blue all-in-one suit. “Never one for dating, or even talking about omegas. I thought, since you’re a beta, maybe…”

John nodded, side-stepping any denial. “No, no. Just flat-mates. Colleagues now, apparently.”

“It’ll do him good. Living alone doesn’t suit him. Right, Sherlock, what’ve you got for me?” Lestrade marched over, John trailing behind, thinking.

_Sherlock doesn’t like omegas?_

He’d heard some rumours over the years – alphas who didn’t feel the drive to breed, even around omegas in heat – but never thought there was much truth behind them. But if Sherlock was one of those… that would be perfect. John hadn’t exactly felt nervous around him, but certainly hadn’t been relaxed.

If an unbonded omega was bitten, by any alpha other than the one who impregnated them, they would miscarry.

Their body would reject the foetus, flush it out in order to make space for one belonging to their true mate.

John resisted the urge to put a hand to his abdomen. He didn’t like to think about being pregnant, not in public, in case he slipped up. His scent was as disguised as it could be, with him still on blockers, but if anything happened… if anyone found out and _wanted_ to bite him… he could lose the only good thing that had come out of his last heat.

So, to hear that Sherlock wasn’t interested in omegas felt like a weight being lifted.

John was safe.

At least, for now.

 

*

 

Before he knew it, John had been living at 221b Baker Street for three weeks. He had a job, working with the police, and a flat-mate who got on his nerves, but who was also his sort-of friend, now. Sherlock hadn’t treated John like an omega, not even slightly. There’d been no stifling ‘looking after’ behaviour, no insistence that John didn’t need to carry that bag, and Sherlock never seemed to think that John couldn’t keep up when they were running. John, on the other hand, had started wondering for how long he _could_ keep that up.

He even started wondering if he’s got it wrong that first time they met. Maybe Sherlock _didn’t_ know John was an omega. Perhaps that had just been John’s paranoia. It would certainly explain why Sherlock seemed happy enough with their living arrangement without trying to turn it into something else.

Though it was strange how John noticed, a little more each day, how Sherlock was handsome, and tall, and the sort of alpha John would usually seek out for a night to themselves (though not in heat, _never_ in heat) when he had a bit of leave. But there was no way he could risk that, now. Besides, if Sherlock found out about John’s situation, it wouldn’t matter how nice he looked.

John would be on the streets, Sherlock calling him every name under the sun.

Fallen Omegas were the lowest of the low. Worse than alphas who fucked their own kind. They were fallen, irredeemable in their actions. No one wished to be associated with them.

John had to wonder what sort of life he was going to make for his unborn baby. One where they went from place to place, never staying anywhere long? Or would John find a single alpha, one who was sympathetic to their situation, and submit to their bite just to keep a roof over his and his baby’s head?

The future wasn’t clear.

John stood sideways-on, looking in the full-length mirror. He couldn’t see any changes, yet. He breathed out, and stuck his stomach out as far as he could, but he didn’t look pregnant, just like someone with a paunch. He stood normally again, and the curve disappeared. He felt mildly grateful to the army for giving him a washboard stomach, at least. He wouldn’t show for a good long while. That didn’t stop him checking every morning, though.

He picked up his keys and went downstairs.

“Lestrade’s called,” Sherlock said, handing him his jacket. “Down by the Thames, Cheapside. Not been in the water long, but the marks on the –”

“How long does he want us for?” John asked.

Sherlock paused. “I don’t know. Why?”

“I’ve got an appointment.”

“Reschedule it, this is important.”

“So is this.”

“What is it? Are you ill?” Sherlock looked him up and down, and for a moment John feared he would be deduced just like Sherlock deduced everyone else around him.

John had been lucky – no morning sickness, not a great deal of tiredness, and only slightly off his food, nothing he couldn’t cover for. “I’m not ill,” he said. “It’s… look, it’s private, alright?”

Sherlock frowned. “You saw your therapist two days ago.”

“This isn’t about… Sherlock, I just have to leave at twelve. That’s all.”

“Fine. I’ll try and get the police to work around your schedule.” Sherlock flounced down the stairs, and left John at the top, feeling very out of sorts.

Why should he care if he was annoying Sherlock?

It wasn’t like they were a couple.

It wasn’t as though they were mates.

 

*

 

John made it to the clinic with fifteen seconds to spare. Only to be sat waiting for another twenty minutes as the appointments were running late.

He sat in his jacket, feeling uncomfortably warm, starting to sweat slightly, his bladder (which he had been forbidden to empty before he went in to see the nurse) aching with the urge to burst. He’d finally dispensed with the long sleeves beneath his shirts, the mess and scars on his arms still hidden beneath his shirt sleeves, unseen by anyone he worked with, even from Sherlock.

He looked around at the people in the waiting room. Men and women, alphas and omegas, betas… He was given the occasional glance himself. As was the empty chair next to him. John wondered if they were thinking his wife was missing, or his mate.

“Watson?”

John leapt up, and almost ran into the room. “That’s me. Sorry.”

“Right…” the nurse kept the door open, and looked into the waiting room. “Is there someone with you?”

“No, I’m – I’ve come on my own,” he said. He could feel the blush starting to burn into his face, even as the lie came out: “He had to work, he couldn’t get out of it.”

“Oh,” the nurse smiled, and closed the door. “Well, make sure he doesn’t work too hard! You need looking after. On the bed, trousers down to your hips, shirt up, that’s it…”

John did as he was told, the chair his imaginary mate should have sat on now home to his jacket.

The nurse applied gel to John’s skin, and pressed a fat wand with a flat head like a paint-roller onto it. “What does your mate do?”

“Um…” John decided to err on the side of truth. “He’s in the military. Not deployed, but, still. Armed forces.”

“Oh, fancy that. How did you meet?”

“I worked with him…” John watched the screen fuzz, then the curves of his organs came into view.

The nurse turned the screen just a little, so he couldn’t see. “Get you a good luck in a moment, darling, let me just get everything measured first…”

“…ok.” John’s mind started racing. Was there something wrong?

“So you met at work? How nice!”

“Um, yeah,” John tried to get back into the story. “Yeah, and then… we didn’t see each other for a long while, and then… he was…” he trailed off.

 

_“John, your temperature is going right up,” he said, looking worried. “Can you stand? What –”_

_“I’m…” John gripped the sides of the bed. There was a harness strapping him to the bed, so he didn’t roll onto his side. He couldn’t release it himself. He was trapped, bound to the bed. “Oh, fuck. How long have I been here?”_

_“Just over a week. John, watch your shoulder, you can’t put any weight on it –”_

_“Oh god,” John covered his face with his hands. “Oh GOD. The trauma must have set it off. Where’s my file?”_

_“Here, but –”_

_“Did you read it? Did_ anyone _read it?”_

_“John, what are you talking about?” The doctor looked confused._

_“Just read it, for godsake. Properly.”_

_“… I don’t understa… oh. Oh. Oh, John. Oh my god, we – we didn’t know. We assumed –”_

_“I need a transfer,” John gasped. “Immediately. Don’t you know what’s happening?”_

_The doctor blushed. “Well, yes, but… what did you do before?”_

_“Scheduled leave like a normal person! You’ve got to get me out of here, please!”_

_The doctor backed off, towards the door. “I… I could get an ambulance ready, but…”_

_“But nothing! I can’t stay here!”_

_The lock turned in the door. The doctor twisted all four locks from floor to ceiling, and turned back to John with a glint in his eye. “You can stay here. I’ll take care of you.”_

_Fear shot through John like the bullet that had torn through his shoulder. “No,” he shook his head. “No, please. Please, I can’t. I…”_

_“It’ll be much easier if we just let this happen.” The doctor let his coat fall to the floor. He unclipped his beeper, and sent a message. “Now, you don’t need to worry. We won’t be disturbed. Omega…”_

_“No!” John tried to back away, but he was strapped tight. Only his arms could move freely._

_“You’re too old to keep doing this to yourself,” the doctor said. He stroked a hand up John’s bare leg, beneath the blanket. “You need a mate, John. You need a baby. I can give them to you, and then you never have to go out and get shot at again. I’ll take care of you, when you’re my omega…”_

_John fumbled for the harness, trying to free himself, then twisting away, trying to avoid the hands which firmly caught his wrists, and slammed them back against the bed._

_“Don’t move about too much,” the doctor said, leaning close. “You need to take care of that shoulder.”_

“Well, I’m sure it was very romantic. I suppose you’re waiting until the baby’s here to bond?”

“Yes,” John said, somehow unable to move at that moment.

“Alright, moment of truth! Here you go…” she turned the screen around. A baby-shaped shadow flexed their legs on the screen.

John stared, feeling his eyes pop, but unable to say a word.

“Head, arms, little feet… Everything looks good, Mister Watson. They’re a good size. Can’t tell whether they’re male or female yet, of course…”

“I don’t care,” John said. He watched the baby curl its back a little, then settle again.

“Now, because you’re…er… a little older than we usually see a first-time mother, we’d like you to come in every four weeks for a check-up, is that alright?”

“Fine,” John said, suddenly thinking of Sherlock, and how he was going to need some more excuses at the ready.

“Let’s get you some photos printed whilst we clean you up…”

A few tissues later, and John was issued with a ‘Please Offer Me A Seat’ badge for the tube, several booklets on pregnancy, and three photographs printed of the baby. He sat in the hospital café, and looked carefully at them, in private.

His chest ached.

The baby would probably look like the alpha who sired them. That hurt. There was nothing he could do about it, but it still hurt. He didn’t want reminding of that day. The only blessing had been that he’d conceived on the first… go. His heat hadn’t taken over him, and he’d had enough strength remaining to protect his neck with his arms. He ruined his shoulder doing it, so much that it still hurt, and his arms had been bitten to smithereens, but he hadn’t been bitten on the throat.

He was an unbonded mother, and by his own choice. He declined an after-heat pill when it was offered, and declined again a termination when he was urged to consider one. In the end, John was given his discharge papers, some compensation and hush-money, and sent on his way.

It didn’t matter to anyone that he hadn’t wanted to bond. It didn’t matter to anyone that he’d ended up in a hospital for betas and alphas because people looked at him and _assumed_. They just saw a Fallen Omega. They saw a man who’d disgraced himself.

No one, John told himself, would ever see anything else.

He put the photos in his wallet, and went to walk to the bus stop.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had never lived with an omega, before.

He’d known a few, of course. Molly, the pathologist at St Bart’s, was one. There were a few others working for the police, usually in the science departments, not on the beat.

But Sherlock had never lived with one.

And the way things were going, if he ever doubted himself (which he did not), he might he gone back to his original assessment of John Watson as a beta. There was absolutely no indicator that the man was anything else. He smelled like a beta, enough to fool Sherlock’s nose ninety-nine times out of a hundred. He didn’t dress like an omega – there were no tight shirts or floaty materials in John’s wardrobe. He didn’t look like an omega, either. Aside from his height, which was below average for a man, John gave off very few physical indicators. He was reluctant to touch alphas, that was something… and he was very nice and affectionate towards Molly, and to children they encountered on cases, but otherwise… Sherlock had very little to go on. John was a mystery.

Sherlock enjoyed having a mystery in the house. It was one he had planned to take his time to solve, though he never mentioned John’s gender.

And John never mentioned it, either. And without the issue being brought to the light, the two men were able to live together without any of the tensions Sherlock had assumed would arise. And the ‘temporary’ nature of their living together didn’t get mentioned quite as often as it might have. John pulled his weight, he paid the rent, and he was rather pleasant to be with.

Except… there was more to John than just his gender. He was quite guarded, whenever Sherlock asked about, or deduced without asking, his past. Army doctor was as far as they’d got. One older sibling. One gunshot wound to the shoulder. Sherlock had also caught a glimpse of the scars on John’s arms, when he rolled his sleeves up to do the dishes. Sherlock didn’t recognise what the scars might be from – they were layered, and ridged, and curved as though the wound had been repeatedly torn open. He suspected John wouldn’t be pleased if he asked about them, though, so he filed the question away for later.

“Here,” John handed Sherlock a mug of tea, and sat at the opposite end of the sofa. The curtains were drawn, as the night was still light, outside. A cooling breeze was coming through one of the open windows. It was very pleasant. It was a routine they’d sort of fall into. Home, dinner, tea in front of the television, where sometimes one of them would fall asleep. Sherlock rather liked it when John did – it was a chance to examine his characterful face, without being seen himself. John had a handsome look about him, even when his mouth was open and he was snoring.

Sherlock half-watched John cross his legs. One of the man’s socks had bunched up on his foot. Sherlock had an itch to smooth it out. He sipped his tea, instead.

John picked the remote control up. “Do you mind?”

“No…” Sherlock settled back as John chased through the channels, eventually ending up on some programme about ground-breaking science and research in medicine. It was something they would both enjoy staring at.

John noticed the bunch of his sock, and used the toe of his other foot to flex and smooth the woollen fabric out.

Sherlock pretended to watch the screen, mentally identifying John’s foot-bones as he moved. He let his eyes travel up, over John’s legs, his stomach, chest, shoulders… he silently imagined what the impact scar would look like. John had said it was on his shoulder, but where? Was it raised, or flat? A star, or a neat circle? Sherlock’s eyes went up, and met John’s.

John gave a tiny smile.

Sherlock looked away, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, the tingles spreading down the backs of his arms.

John shifted in his place, getting comfy against the cushions, an arm slung over the back of the sofa, claiming space. Such a not-omega thing to do. Sherlock wondered where he’d learnt it.

The footage onscreen suddenly showed an alpha-omega couple going to have blood tests. It was part of an experiment for genetic compatibility.

John drummed his fingers against his thigh, but didn’t comment. He always went silent when he saw bonded pairs. Sherlock wondered if he was jealous, or if he dreaded the thought. He liked to think, since John was so against being open about his gender, that it was the later.

“Strange, how the couples they show for this sort of thing are always the same,” Sherlock said. “Alpha man, omega woman. They never show genetic testing for betas. Or an alpha-beta couple.”

“It’s the same way they always show one boy and one girl child,” John said. “It’s meant to be diverse.”

Sherlock snorted, looking at the two white people onscreen. “Diverse?”

“Ha.” John looked at him. “So, what happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why aren’t you bonded and with a pile of kids?”

Sherlock stared. It was so… outright. Was John making fun of him?

But John’s face wasn’t teasing. It was genuinely curious, gentle. He was being… kind? A small smile played over his mouth. That same smile he’d worn when he caught Sherlock looking at him. What did that smile _mean_?

“It… just never happened,” Sherlock said. “My parents tried to get me interested when I was younger. And my brother, but –”

“You’ve got a brother?” John asked in surprise.

“Yes. Older.”

“And neither of you…”

Sherlock shook his head. “It always seemed to me that to bond would mean giving something up. And I never met anyone who was worth that.”

John nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

 _I know you do,_ Sherlock thought. “I’ve never been prepared to do that, so…”

“Makes sense to me,” John said. He shifted slightly, and rubbed his nose. “Not wanting to give up your freedom. It’s got you where you are now, anyway?”

“Yes. It’s got me… here…” Sherlock wondered at what point their bodies had become angled towards one another, his arm also on the sofa-back, a mirror of John’s. It should have felt odd, frightening, maybe. Unwelcome for certain.

But it didn’t.

John’s little smile faded. “Stuck with me.”

The air felt very thick, all of a sudden.

Sherlock saw John’s eyes flick to the back of the sofa.

Their hands were centimetres apart. Sherlock could feel his digits almost vibrating. Like a magnet held back from connecting to an opposite pole. The air between them felt as taut as a pulled bowstring.

Sherlock watched John’s upper teeth scrape over his lower lip, just for a second. Blood rushed to the surface of the skin, reddening his lip, blushing it.

Then, John sat back, and smiled again, though his eyes weren’t in it, not properly. He folded his hands into his lap. “Is there a plan for tomorrow then?”

Sherlock blinked, the spell broken. “Er. No. Might go and see Molly. Those samples should be done by tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, yeah. You still think it was the brother, then?”

“Of course, who else would have…” and Sherlock started rattling on about their latest case, until John went up to his room, and Sherlock was sitting on his own bed before he realised how neatly John had distracted him from… whatever it was that had been happening.

He lay awake, for a long time.

 

*

 

A week later, Sherlock was alone, in the lab at St Bart’s. John had spent the morning being sick, which was way out of Sherlock’s comfort zone. He’d made himself scarce as soon as John said he’d be better as soon as he’d gone back to bed and slept it off.

Sherlock dripped some solution into a petri dish, and put it under the microscope.

“That culture will be ready in half an hour. Sherlock?” Molly said, hopefully, from somewhere around Sherlock’s left elbow.

“Yes, thank you…” he turned the focus, slightly.

“John not with you, today?”

“Don’t state the obvious to try and summon up conversation, Molly, it doesn’t suit you.”

She giggled, nervously. She smelled sickly-sweet to Sherlock’s nose. Mid-cycle. Her heat would be another month at least. Last time she had actually asked him if he wanted to spend it with her. He hadn’t known where to look. And even his blunt refusal hadn’t put her off. Molly didn’t meet many single alphas in her line of work, and she didn’t have many outside interests.

“John is ill,” Sherlock sighed, looking down at her, “if you must know.”

“Oh dear,” Molly put a hand to her mouth.

“He was only being sick, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Maybe it was something he ate?”

“Possibly.” Sherlock adjusted the microscope again. “It’s very inconvenient.”

Molly smiled. “It’s nice to see you working well with someone.”

Sherlock looked at her again. “What – what do you mean?”

“You’re on your own a lot, aren’t you?” she shrugged. “That’s always been how you work. But now you’ve got John…” her smile fell in something more genuine, and yet more sad. “You seem happier.”

Sherlock just blinked.

“I’ll go check on those cultures,” Molly said, excusing herself, and trotting away.

Sherlock waited until the lab door closed, and then sat back from the microscope. John made him seem happier?

It did seem awfully difficult to deny that, now he thought about it… and the other night on the sofa… that magnetic draw towards John. How Sherlock had wanted their hands to come into contact, yet feared what would happen if they did. John had been the one to move away… but then he was an omega, even if he acted like a beta…

Oh god.

Was this…

Sherlock swallowed, hard.

 

*

 

John had checked his wallet twice in the space of an hour. He sighed, and ruffled up the short hair at the back of his head.

“Do you need money?” Sherlock asked, looking up from his phone.

“What?” John frowned. “Er, no. Yeah, I mean. Sorry…”

“Are you alright?” Sherlock lowered his device and watched John put his wallet away, into his back pocket. It ruined his silhouette, in Sherlock’s opinion. “It’s been a week since you were ill.”

“I know. I’m fine,” John said. He was sitting right on the edge of his armchair, like he was preparing to spring off. Sherlock had never seen him so on edge. “Sherlock, I… This..” he stopped, and ran a hand over his chin, pressing a finger to his lips as he thought.

Sherlock watched him struggle, for a moment. John clearly had something to say, but why would it be… oh.

Oh.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “John, I – I think perhaps, given our living situation, that –”

“Our living situation, yes,” John said quickly. “Temporary, yeah?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. But his chest hurt, for a moment.

“Look,” John sighed, “the reason that –”

The living room door burst open.

Both men looked around.

Greg Lestrade stood, panting for breath. “Davidson. On the run. Caught in the act this time. Will –”

They were both already standing, following him out of the door, not bothering to grab coats, just keys as they pelted down the stairs after the fugitive they’d been chasing for weeks – get this one, Lestrade had said, and they could all retire.

Imagine.

As if Sherlock would ever retire.

The door slammed behind them, the unsaid conversation hanging in the air.

 

*

 

They collapsed back through the door, five hours later.

John had a shallow cut to his face, and Sherlock a bloodied set of knuckles on his right hand. They’d raced all over London, so it seemed, on foot and in cabs, and even on bikes, for a short while. But they’d got him. Not without a fight, but they’d got him.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, breathing hard, chest rising and falling too fast.

John did the same, one hand to his stomach as he tried to slow his own breaths down. “Fucking hell…”

“You enjoyed it,” Sherlock said, breathlessly. He turned his head. “Admit it.”

“Ok, a bit,” John grinned.

“You’ll miss it.”

“…what?”

“When you leave.”

John huffed out a breath. “You – make it sound like – I’m an addict.”

“Well,” Sherlock grinned. “Take one to know one.”

They looked at each other.

And they both started laughing.

Stupidly. Hysterically. Sherlock’s legs were wobbling through exhaustion and stress, and John actually slid down the wall a bit as he tried to stay upright, wiping at his eyes as tears of laughter sprung up in them. It wasn’t even funny. It was funny because they weren’t dead. It was funny because they were alive, and together, and here, and -

“Oh god, what are we like?” John looked over at him, and Sherlock felt his insides lurch. John was blushing, and laughing, and there was a thin trickle of blood running down from his eyebrow, and…

Sherlock reached over, and smeared the blood under the pad of his thumb.

John went still, his smile remaining, his eyes still shining bright.

Sherlock expected him to ask _What are you doing_? But he didn’t. He just let Sherlock wipe the blood away from his eye, a look Sherlock couldn’t read on his face.

Something like resignation, and expectation.

John swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling as he did so. “Sherlock…”

“John.” Sherlock didn’t move his hand.

John sighed. “I –”

But he never got the rest of that sentence out. Because Sherlock moved, quickly, and planted a kiss right onto John’s mouth.

It was only a quick one. Over before it started, really. A touch of lips on lips, like a press with a sound at the end of it.

But it was done.

Sherlock watched the look of surprise wash over John’s face.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh…”

Sherlock suddenly felt frightened. “John, if I –” and then it was Sherlock’s turn not to finish.

John pulled him close by the shirt-front, so Sherlock was pressing him against the wall, and kissing him deeply, and oh _god_ that bodily contact – the sensation of crushing a lover against a surface – made Sherlock moan directly into John’s mouth. Sherlock could cover John completely, the difference in their heights was enough, and his inner alpha crowed in delight as the feeling.

They kissed fiercely, sloppily, without any sort of co-ordination, both of them trying to find a rhythm, and neither of them quite getting there. John opened his mouth as Sherlock licked over his lower lip, tasting the sweat of their run. John was clutching hard at Sherlock’s back, letting himself be held tight, and Sherlock felt the omega’s confusion as his body wished for him to submit but his brain did not wish to. It was arousing – moreso than Sherlock would have anticipated – and the shock of his cock responding to the kisses, of his jaw aching with the start of the need to bite…

“Sherlock,” John gasped, as Sherlock ran his hands down over John’s legs. “Sherlock, I – I need to – need to tell you – need to tell you something…”

“Shh,” Sherlock put a hand to the side of John’s head. “It’s alright, John. I know.”

“You – you know?” John frowned. “How..?”

“Just little things that give you away,” Sherlock smiled, going back to kiss at John’s jaw, feeling him tense. “It’s alright. I knew the first time we met, but you never seemed to want to discuss it, and you always chose to present as a beta, so…”

“Wait,” John took hold of Sherlock’s arms, and the alpha stopped. “Wait, you – you mean you know that I’m a… that I’m not a beta?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock blinked at him.

“Oh god,” John let him go, and covered his face with his hands. “Oh god, Sherlock, I…” he looked up at the alpha, and Sherlock felt something strange run through him. Whatever this was, it was causing John pain to hold it in. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to take that pain away.

“What is it?”

“Sherlock, I am… I am an… omega,” John’s lip curled in distaste as he said it. “But… that’s not what I wanted to say.”

“Then… what?” Sherlock looked him over. “Oh god, did you not want me to –”

“I did want,” John held a hand up. “I did want. That’s not what… shit. Ok…” he pushed off the wall, and stood straighter.

Sherlock braced himself.

“Sherlock…" John winced, and shut his eyes. "I’m pregnant.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love and support for this fic so far! x

When John Watson was a little boy of five, he wanted to be a soldier. He wanted it more than anything, because it was, in some ways, all he knew. His dad was a soldier, and even his mother worked behind a desk in the military. They were an alpha-beta pair, with two children, and John had a happy childhood, erring on dull.

“He’s going to be an alpha, like his dad, that one,” people would say, as they say young John charging about, playing with toy guns and swords, climbing trees and eating endlessly.

When John was about nine, he wanted to be a doctor. He wanted it almost as much as he wanted to be a soldier, and was thrilled when he learned that he could do both. By now, he was somewhat smaller than his classmates, and people assumed he would grow up to be a beta. Still a soldier, and a doctor, too.

“Pity they didn’t get an alpha boy,” people sighed, “but what can you do?”

When John was fifteen, he presented as an omega, and had his first heat. He was disgusted with himself. His parents were shocked. His sister was shocked. His teachers, neighbours, friends were shocked. No one would ever have guessed that John Watson, who played rugby and was on the cycling team, who had no talent for the arts or music… was an omega.

“I wonder if there’s something wrong with him,” people would say.

John certainly thought there was. He went to the doctor, and asked if there was anything they could do. The confused doctors ran blood-tests on him, and scanned his body but the evidence was clear – John had a fully-functioning uterus and ovaries; he had the genetic makeup of an omega. John asked again, if anything could be done. He was told that there was no chance of him having a hysterectomy at his age, and besides, didn’t he want to give his mate children, one day?

John couldn’t imagine anything worse. The thought he being pregnant made him feel sick. He vowed never to be around an alpha when his heats came, and he promised himself he would change nothing about himself. He wouldn’t dress like an omega, he wouldn’t act like one, and as soon as he was old enough to get scent blockers he wouldn’t smell like one either. He wanted to be an alpha, or a beta. He would pretend to be one, for the rest of his life.

It had worked, for decades.

Until he was shot, flown back, mis-gendered, and taken in heat for the first ever time.

He’d almost gotten away with it.

And now everyone would know he was an omega.

But all of those feelings, all of that self-disgust and dislike, all of that discomfort paled into insignificance at the look on Sherlock Holmes’ face.

John would have felt all of that past and present disgust with himself ten times over, just to erase the look of shock and horror in the eyes of his friend.

 

*

 

“You’re…” Sherlock looked down at John’s stomach. “Are you sure?”

John wanted to laugh. But he didn’t. “I’m sure.”

“…how? I mean – how pregnant? How… long?”

“Fourteen weeks.” John watched Sherlock mentally doing the maths. “I’m not really showing yet.”

“So, when we met, you were already –”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Sherlock’s eyes had gone a little glazed.

John wished he could sink into the hall carpet and disappear. “That’s why… I never expected this, I just thought this was somewhere to stay –”

“Where’s your alpha?” Sherlock demanded.

John looked up. “I don’t have one.”

“You must have one.”

“I don’t.”

Sherlock stared. “You’re… having it on your own? Unbonded?”

John nodded.

“When were you going to tell me?”

“I never thought I’d be here long enough for it to matter!” John held his hands up. “And when… Sherlock, I didn’t want anything to – to happen without me telling you, so that’s why –”

“You were going to tell me when Lestrade came over,” Sherlock pressed his hands against his eyes. “Oh god. Oh…” his hands dropped. “That was your appointment. That’s why you were sick. I’m… I’m such an _idiot_!” He thumped the wall beside Mrs Hudson’s door. “Of course you’re pregnant. You drink decaf tea for godsake. No one does that unless they have to.”

John let out a breathy laugh. “Sherlock… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock turned to look at him. “You’re… you’re going to have a – a baby, and on your own, that’s…” he shook his head. “What are you thinking?”

Shame burned through John’s face. “I don’t need to answer to you.”

“Alright, but what about everyone else in the world? John – you know what they’ll call you.”

“They?” John folded his arms. “Or you?”

They stared at one another.

Sherlock looked away first. “I can’t do this. Not now, I’m too…” he made a sort of shaking gesture with his arms.

“Ashamed?” John suggested.

“No! I’m… Look, this is… unexpected.”

John nodded. “You wish you hadn’t kissed me.”

There was a horrible pause. The sort that means _yes_ , but the person who should say it is too embarrassed.

Sherlock raked through his hair. “I don’t regret it.”

 _Liar_. John raised his eyebrows.

“I just… I need some time.” And he turned, and went up the stairs, without another word.

John waited until he heard Sherlock’s door slam, before putting a hand to his stomach.

 

*

 

He barely slept.

He eventually dragged himself out of bed just after seven, and set about getting something to eat. He was just considering boiling water on the hob for tea, to avoid the kettle noise, when Sherlock appeared at the sink, filling the kettle with water.

“I didn’t realise you were awake,” John said, feeling stupid.

“Yes. Didn’t sleep for long.” Sherlock clicked the kettle on, and got two mugs out. He looked at John. “Caf or decaf?”

“Caf,” John said. “Since it’s dawn.” He put some bread in the toaster.

They assembled their breakfast in silence, and eventually sat opposite one another at the end of the breakfast bar.

John picked up his tea and inhaled the steam, savouring the one decent cup of the day.

“John…”

He looked through the steam at Sherlock.

“John, I…” Sherlock steepled his hands, and leaned forward a little. “I owe you an apology.”

“You’re apologising?” John lowered his mug. “You?”

“It can happen,” Sherlock smiled, and John’s heart gave a twinge, despite his misery over the night before. “I… shouldn’t have spoken to you like I did. You were telling me something important, and I… didn’t listen properly. I judged, without knowing the whole story. Bad form, for a consulting detective. Never mind… anything else.”

John nodded. “Well, thank you. For saying that.”

They both sipped their teas.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Would you explain to me... what I need to know?”

John picked up a piece of toast, and began to butter it. “There’s not a lot more to say, to be quite honest with you. I’m pregnant, and I’m not with the alpha. I never was.”

“…what do you mean?”

“I mean, none of this was my idea,” John said. He paused, then rolled up a sleeve of his pyjama top, showing off the scars.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and he reached out to touch John’s skin, his fingers warm from the mug against John’s flesh. “These are bites,” he deduced.

“Yeah, they are.” John wanted to move his arm out of sight, but Sherlock was tracing the shape of the scars without disgust, only curiosity, and John couldn’t stand the idea that he might stop. “I couldn’t move away, but I didn’t want him to bite me.”

“Why?” Sherlock raised his eyes.

“Because he wasn’t anything to me,” John said, taking his arm away. “He was a colleague. We barely knew each other.”

“But he was there when you had a –”

“It was in hospital,” John said quickly. “There was a mix-up. It… happened.”

Sherlock’s face went through several dozen emotions. John watched him wrestle with the information. He understood the confusion. Omegas, by law, were unable to claim they didn’t consent to an alpha’s attentions during a heat. It was claimed that an omega’s pheromones made it impossible for an alpha to stop what they were doing, and since so many of these instances resulted in a bond, anyway…

“So, you… didn’t choose… him?” Sherlock frowned, looking at the marmalade.

“No.” John swallowed. “Before him I’d never –” he stopped, and looked away, blushing. “I wasn’t a nun, but… look, it’s pretty obvious I’m not ok with being an omega, isn’t it? That was one part of it that I never wanted. Ever. And… as far as I’m concerned, it wasn’t something I did. It was something that happened to me.”

“Couldn’t you have, er, not had it?” Sherlock glanced pointedly at John’s stomach.

“I thought about it,” John nodded. “But… as not-maternal as I am, I do think this is probably my only chance to have a kid. So, even if the circumstances aren’t ideal –”

“Ideal?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” John went on, “I think this might be it, for me. I want to have it, and bring it up right. I can do that, at least.” He picked up another piece of toast.

“But aren’t you worried about what people will think? Or say?”

“Very,” John said. “Why do you think I didn’t tell you right away? I know what people think. Oh, these Fallen Omegas, they’re a disgrace, why didn’t they submit like they’re supposed to, they make a mockery of family, how can they possibly bring up a child on their own… I’ve heard it all. But I’m just going to have to ride it out. When it’s born, I can re-assess.”

“Assess?”

“I don’t mind getting the flack for what happened,” John said. “But I don’t want my baby to be looked down on.”

The implication of what John was saying echoed around the silent room.

Sherlock sat back a little.

“I wasn’t trying you on for size,” John said softly. “I stopped it because I know what it would mean, for you. You don’t just get me, if we…”

Sherlock hummed. “Mm.”

John watched his face. The idea of accepting another alpha’s child was not one that many men would be happy to roll with. Being mated with an omega was about passing on your genes, about bonding with blood. Spending your time and energies looking after a child that wasn’t yours went against nature, so some people said. What it came down to was that John had already refused one alpha’s advances, and was prepared to literally bear the burden of shame that came with it.

Sherlock unfolded his hands, and pressed them flat onto the table top. “I don’t understand your decision,” he said. “However, it was _your_ decision, and therefore it is none of my business.”

 _Unless you chose to get involved,_ John thought, _which, from the way you’re speaking, means you don’t want to. Oh, god. I’ve blown it. I’ve blown it. Oh, shit._ He gripped the hem of his pyjama top.

“I’ll leave,” he said, suddenly. “I’ll find somewhere else. I should have. Before now. But everything happened with Greg, and –”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock raised a hand.

“I’ll move out,” John said, again.

Sherlock stared. “I never said you should move out.”

“But… I’ll be…” John made the shape of a large stomach with his hands.

“Alright, yes, but not for some time, I imagine?”

“Maybe, but – but Sherlock, what is this? I don’t want to stay here if it’s going to make things awkward.”

“Why would they be awkward?”

John threw his hands up. “Because we were getting off in the bloody hallway!”

“Ah. Yes. I see why that could be an issue…” Sherlock almost blushed. “Was that something you wanted to… look into?”

John ruffled his hair. “This has got to be the most awkward conversation of all time.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock reached across the table, but John withheld his hands. “John… I have lived my whole life thinking that I didn’t care about om – about relationships,” he changed his words carefully, for which John was grateful. “You don’t act like – you act like a beta. You want to be one. You pass flawlessly as one. You intrigued me, and I enjoyed your company, and… John, I don’t regret what happened last night. Not at all. But to continue it…” he sighed. “I honestly don’t know what to do.”

John gave a sad smile. “Neither do I.”

They looked at one another, over the table, crumbs and cooling tea between them.

John clicked his tongue. “Maybe we don’t have to give this a label or anything. We can just… see how things go. Like we were doing before?”

Sherlock gave a slow nod. “Yes. I… I wouldn’t like you to feel as though you had to leave, or to change anything about yourself. It’s you that I wanted.”

“Past tense?” John grinned.

Sherlock just smiled.

“Alright, then,” John nodded. “We’ll carry on. Ok.”

Sherlock picked up a piece of toast. Then frowned. “One thing I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

“Why were you looking in your wallet before you were going to tell me you were pregnant?”

John blinked. Then smiled. “One second…” he got up, and took his wallet from the coffee table, taking the pictures out, and bringing them to the table. “This is why.” He pushed them towards Sherlock.

Sherlock reached towards the pictures. John watched his eyebrows rise, and his mouth open, just a little. “Oh…”

“Yeah. I don’t know the sex yet.”

Sherlock nodded, and handed the pictures back. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” John gave a small smile, and went to put his photos away again.


	5. Chapter 5

John was aware of the change in attitude, even if Sherlock didn’t realise he was doing it. It was subtle, but it was there. Sherlock’s eyes would flick over to watch if John was lifting something heavy, or if he chose to eat something out of the ordinary (Marmite on carrot sticks was a current craving of John’s).

“You’re supposed to avoid too much Vitamin A,” Sherlock said as John got the Marmite jar down.

“What?” John paused.

“Vitamin A. Carrots are full of it.” Sherlock pointed at his laptop screen. “Just saying.”

“Oh.” John put the jar down. He doubted he was overdoing it on the carrots, but Sherlock telling him he might be made him feel strange. “I’ll make toast, then.” But he didn’t move. Why was he changing his plan just because Sherlock had said something?

“I think you’d probably need to be eating liver, and lots of it, to make a real difference,” Sherlock, oblivious, was still reading his screen. “You’re probably fine.”

“Probably.” John put the jar back. He didn’t feel hungry, anymore. He felt a bit faint. “I think I’ll…” he didn’t bother to finish the sentence, just walked out of the kitchen and stood on the landing between the two staircases, leaning against the wall. He’d never felt such a strong instinct to do as he was told. Not even when a drill sergeant was screaming at him. Sherlock had just _suggested_ something to him, and John had done as he said.

He felt terrified.

John had spent his entire life suppressing his omega instincts. He’d looked into alpha faces, taken the lead in teamwork, ignored advances and not even cooed over the cutest babies. But that, just now… that had been beyond his control.

Omega instincts grew stronger in pregnancy, he knew that, but that didn’t seem natural at all. It had felt… alright. And awful, at the same time.

 

*

 

“Seemed easy and simple enough when we got here,” Greg said, leading them into the warehouse, “but when they went to move the bodies, well…”

“Disintegration?” Sherlock sniffed. “Really?”

“Dunno what to tell you. They lifted the arm of the first one and it just came off in their hands, went to dust. You ever seen anything like that, John?” Greg handed him a dust-mask.

“Not that extreme,” John fitted it over his mouth and nose. “Before it happened, how long did your man say they’d been here?”

“Not more’n a few hours.”

“Hm.” John followed him through the plastic sheeting, and went over to the forensics table as Sherlock went with Greg to view the corpses proper. To John’s surprise, Molly Hooper was there, mask over her face as she organised samples into plastic packets. “Didn’t think you’d be here, Doctor Hooper.”

“They do let me out. Occasionally,” she smiled, and labelled something.

John held up one of the samples to the light. “This is dry.”

“Some sort of drying agent applied to the bodies?”

“Could be, though you’d expect residue.” John sorted through a few more. “Hm.” He lifted the mask, and inhaled closer to the packet. “Need an alpha nose on this.”

“I thought pregnancy was meant to give you a better sense of smell?” Molly asked.

John dropped the packet.

Molly clamped a hand to her mouth. “Oh – I didn’t – I’m sorry –”

“What’s going on?” Greg marched over, suspicious.

“I need you or Sherlock to sniff this,” John thrust the packet at him. “I think there’s some sort of ammonia-based agent in it.”

Flustered, Greg sniffed the plastic. “Smells like bleach. No – bathrooms.”

“Could be ammonia,” Sherlock took it from him. “Either ammonia or cat urine.”

“Cat piss? Really?”

“We are in a warehouse,” Sherlock shrugged. “I think it needs taking to the lab. Are you alright, Molly?”

“Yes,” she squeaked, eyes brimming with tears. “I just… sneezed.”

“Right…” Greg made a disbelieving face. “Well, when you’ve got a moment…” He let Sherlock lead him away.

John looked at Molly, and shook his head. “Don’t say anything. Please?”

“I won’t,” she wiped her eyes. “I’m so sorry, I – I’ve not been around many… well, in this line of work, there aren’t many doctors – oh,” she smiled, “I thought there weren’t anyway. Are you… waiting for a scan, or…?”

“No, no, I’ve had that,” John said, his voice low. “I just don’t want Greg to know. Not yet.”

“Is Sherlock worried it’ll interfere with work?”

“I guess he must be, but it’s my decision to keep quiet…” John realised what she must be thinking. “It’s not Sherlock’s.”

Molly’s face fell. “Oh. I thought…”

“I know. But we’re not together. And even if we were… this happened before we met.”

Molly actually took a step back. “You… you left…”

“No, I didn’t leave. I was never with anyone to begin with,” John sniffed.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Molly frowned. “You must have been _with_ someone.”

John stared at her. “Do you ever let yourself end up around alphas when it’s your heat, Molly?”

She blushed.

“What would happen if you did?”

“Well,” she went redder, “I _wouldn’t_ , because if I did, I know what would happen. I’d be allowing it to happen.”

“Would you? Or would you simply be a vulnerable person in a situation you had a poorer hand in?”

They stared at one another.

John looked away first. “Just… please, keep it to yourself? It’s not obvious, yet, and I like this job.”

“When they find out they’ll be furious,” she whispered.

“Probably.” John watched Sherlock and Greg walk back over.

“Sherlock knows, then?” Molly asked.

“Yeah.”

Her eyebrows went up. “And he’s… ok with it?”

“Well, he’s not kicked me out of the flat,” John said, avoiding mentioning the kiss. “Sherlock,” he called, “what’s the relationship between the two deceased?” He left Molly at her table, and walked back over to the crime scene. He’d expected a little more support from his fellow omega, but the wounded views of society ran deep. Molly was in her late twenties, and un-bonded. She had enough stigma to deal with. She didn’t need to carry John’s problems as well.

 

*

 

“I’ve got an appointment tomorrow,” John said, the night after next.

“Oh,” Sherlock looked up from his phone. They were beside one another on the sofa, though not touching. There’d been no touches since that evening in the hallway. John had tried not to feel bitter about it. He knew what he was asking.

“Yeah. It’s in the morning. I should be back by lunchtime.”

Sherlock glanced at his phone, then lowered it. “Is it… a baby appointment?”

John had to smile. “Yeah. Because I’m so very, very old, they need me to go in more often. That’s all.”

Sherlock sat up. “Are – are you old? What does that matter?”

“Well, older om… older people,” John couldn’t bring himself to say it, “older people can have more difficult pregnancies. It’s more likely the foetus will develop problems, or that I might.”

“Can you do anything about it?”

“Not really,” John said. “Why?”

“It just seems… surely there’s some sort of precaution, or preventative measure?”

“Just being sensible is all you can do. Have a stress-free home life, if you can, that sort of thing.”

Sherlock looked around the room, as if assessing the flat for stress. “Perhaps your job –”

“I’m not quitting, so forget it,” John rolled his eyes. “I’ll stay as long as I can. I can still do my jeans up, yet. Everyone’s oblivious. Well. Mostly everyone.”

Sherlock didn’t ask. He must have assumed John meant him. He never gave Molly a passing thought, after all.

John looked at him. The fact he was unbonded had to be down to personal stamina. Sherlock was a pain in the arse, but an omega didn’t need to be around someone for long enough to learn about their personality before they were bonded and knocked up. Alphas lost nothing by being bonded, except maybe their space and a bit of cash.

“Is your brother bonded?” John asked, suddenly.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock turned. “No, he’s not. Why?”

“It’s just… unusual.”

Sherlock almost smiled. “Yes. Our parents can’t work out where they went wrong. Of course, neither of us are on a clock of any sort.”

“True,” John pulled a face. Alphas could father children for much longer than omegas could mother them. “It doesn’t matter, I was just… wondering.”

Sherlock turned his phone over in his spidery hands. “Your baby’s the size of an avocado, did you know?”

“Er… no?” John blinked, surprised by this information. “Huh. I never liked avocados, actually.” He wondered how Sherlock knew. Was he googling things about pregnancy? He had known about the Vitamin A thing, after all…

“They’re nice on toast,” Sherlock said, still looking into the middle distance. He seemed to be thinking a lot. John could almost hear his brain buzzing. “Avocados. Not babies.”

John didn’t laugh. The air in the room felt very thick, all of a sudden. “Sherlock… are you looking all this up?”

Sherlock blinked, and his eye refocussed. “I… I, er… have an app. On my phone. It sends me a fact a day.”

John stared.

“I thought… I don’t know anything about pregnancy, and since you live here, I should probably –” he was cut off by John’s mouth against his.

John hadn’t meant to move so fast. But the surge of affection he felt had propelled him across the sofa and into Sherlock’s space faster than he could think. He had a hand to Sherlock’s face, and the kiss was still going, not breaking but melting into another, and another, and John was in Sherlock’s lap, Sherlock’s hands on his waist, still kissing…

“God, I’m sorry,” John managed to blurt out, Sherlock’s lips chasing him even as he spoke. “I don’t know why –”

“Shut up, please,” Sherlock’s hands pulled him closer. They ended up mashed together, John tensing in surprise and shock at the hardness he could feel in Sherlock’s trousers. “I thought you didn’t want –”

“I thought _you_ didn’t want –”

“Oh god…” Sherlock kissed him again, his tongue drawing a line over John’s lower lip.

John dropped his jaw, and surged forward until they were as close as they could get with several layers of clothing still in the way. Sherlock gripped him hard in his arms and hands, fingers digging into the flesh of John’s back as they not so much kissed but explored and sighed and tasted one another’s mouths.

John’s entire body felt as though it was tingling as Sherlock ran his hands over him, squeezing at the muscles of his arms and back, the flesh of his arse, down his thick thighs that were so unlike what an omega should look and feel like, but Sherlock didn’t seem to be bothered by it. Quite the opposite, in fact. He gave a soft moan, right onto John’s mouth, and his hips jutted upward as he gripped the hard muscle.

“You… you feel…”

“Sorry…” John felt an urge to hide, all of a sudden.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock put a hand to John’s face, and turned it. “You’re you.”

John killed his urge to laugh by kissing Sherlock again. His tongue swept into that clever mouth, tasting cigarettes and a day’s living. Sherlock squeezed his arse again, and John’s insides seemed to tense and dissolve, a sudden urgency of _wanting_ welling up in his chest and below his stomach, threatening to switch off parts of his brain that he would much rather stayed in working order.

Sherlock’s kisses were trailing, now, over John’s cheek, hot breath over his ear, and down to his throat…

John fought the urge to tense up.

Sherlock must have felt a ripple of tension go through his muscles anyway, because his kisses reduced in their fierceness, and instead became gentle caresses of lips on skin that made John shudder. Gooseflesh rose all over him, and he gasped as Sherlock licked the delicate, over-sensitive spot below his earlobe. His trousers suddenly felt unpleasantly tight.

“Sherlock…”

“Mm?” Teeth joined the assaulting tongue, scraping over each individual goose-bump in a way that made John squirm, grinding down on Sherlock’s erection, making the alpha release a breathy snarl close to John’s ear. John’s inner omega practically melted.

“Sher… I, wait…” John forced himself to sit up, hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock dropped his hands down, and waited. John felt a rush of affection for him, then.

“Sherlock, is this… I don’t want you to feel that you have to…”

“I shouldn’t think I’m being pressured into anything,” Sherlock said, looking up at him. “I don’t want to sound intimidating, but I could easily stop you.”

John tried not imagine that. It made him feel strange. “Yeah, ok, but –”

“I don’t think you need to be concerned about it.”

“I’m not. Much. But… what I said before, about… this not just being… me.” John pulled a face. “You’re really ok with that?”

Sherlock frowned. “I wasn’t aware I was proposing to you?”

Cold disappointment landed on John’s chest. “No,” he said, “I get that.”

“You…” Sherlock sat up, and John was forced to go with him. “You thought this was…”

John suddenly wanted to catch fire to avoid having this conversation. “I just thought… you wouldn’t have kept on kissing me, if you didn’t… accept…”

Sherlock glanced at John’s stomach. “I didn’t think this was getting into that. I thought we agreed… no labels?”

“We did, but…” _But I don’t want to be a one-night shag_. John got off Sherlock’s lap. His erection had entirely wilted away through shame. “I’m sorry. I’m not in the right headspace for this right now.”

“Ok…” Sherlock adjusted himself, and crossed his legs. “I’m sorry if I misunderstood –”

“It’s fine,” John walked into the kitchen to give his legs something to do. “We weren’t on the same page. It’s ok. We don’t have to be.” He could feel Sherlock watching him, and he wanted to disappear. “Kind of kills the mood, having these sort of conversations, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock hesitated, then came over as well, fetching mugs out of the cupboard. “But I would rather have them now, than… later.”

“Yeah,” John clicked the kettle on. His insides were still fluttering, and he had a suspicion it was nothing to do with how he was feeling. “Look, Sherlock, I should have been clearer with you. I don’t want a one-night thing. Things are bloody awkward enough as it is without adding that into it.”

“Alright.” Sherlock picked up the kettle as it steamed.

John watched him pour the water. Decaf for him. Real tea for Sherlock. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want –”

“I think,” Sherlock picked up a teaspoon, “we should draw a line under this.”

The words hit John like a sledgehammer, though one he expected. He accepted the blows with resignation. “I thought you might say that.”

“It isn’t that I don’t like you,” Sherlock said. “But… I’ve never been good with relationships. And… to try and attempt one, when the situation is… not ideal…”

John held a hand up. “Please. I don’t need… it’s fine.” He picked up his tea. “I’m sorry I made this awkward.”

“If you hadn’t, I would have.”

They looked at each other.

“It’s… just bad timing,” Sherlock said, sadly. He picked up his own mug, and took the hot drink into his bedroom, by himself.


	6. Chapter 6

“You coming out for a drink, John?” Greg called as he passed the station reception, where John was writing up a report. “John? Pub?”

“Oh, er,” John looked up, and rubbed the pencil’s eraser on the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t eaten. Don’t want to end up embarrassing you.”

“Then we’ll go to Spoons,” Greg shrugged, pulling his jacket on. “Beer and a burger, yeah?”

“Um. Yeah, why not.” John filed his report, and clicked himself to _signed out_ on the computer. He picked up his own coat on the way out. Though the morning sickness had stopped entirely, it had been replaced with absent-mindedness that annoyed John no end. “Sorry, bit distracted… it’s been a day.”

“You’re taking a coat? Really?” Lestrade glanced at the summer sunshine beating down outside.

John sheepishly draped it over one arm. “It was cool this morning.”

“Right. Did you get that guy to stop bleeding?”

“Yeah, Anderson’s got him in interrogation.”

Greg frowned. “Interrogation? Anderson?”

“Oh, he’s not asking him questions, he’s taking a few skin samples whilst the guy’s out cold.”

“Ah.”

They walked past the Yard, and onwards through the hot streets to the closest pub that also served food. Greg ordered a curry and lager, and John a plate of steak and chips, and a -

“Coke?” Greg raised his eyebrows. “You driving, or something?”

“No, no,” John felt heat suddenly rise into his face. “I’m, er… on some tablets. Not supposed to drink.”

“Oh, mate, you should have said,” Greg said, shoulders going down. “I would’ve had a lemonade for solidarity.”

“Really?”

“No, not really.” Greg laughed, and took a sip of his drink. “So, how’s the flat-share going? You almost killed him yet?”

John snorted. “It’s like you’re watching us.”

“Ha! Seriously, though… He’s not being that much of a dick?”

“Sherlock? He’s…” John’s mind threw up some choice images. He stamped them down. “As long as you don’t try to use the kitchen half the time, I’ve had worse room-mates.”

“That’s great. So… you’ve passed your probation at work, yeah? You thinking of sticking around at the Yard?”

John’s answer was paused by the arrival of their food. He raised a hand before the waiter could disappear. “Sorry, mate, this isn’t well done.”

“Oh,” the waiter looked at John’s plate, and the bloody steak. “Sorry, sir. The chef thinks well-done meat is a crime.”

“It is,” Greg agreed.

“Look, just go and give it an extra five, will you,” John handed the plate over. “Thank you.”

Greg watched the plate disappear. “Army tastebuds, huh?”

John shrugged. The steak had looked perfect, but rare meat was off the menu, for the time being. Another thing that was driving him up the wall. No booze, no nice meats, no Mr Whippy, no liver-pate, no soft cheese… “Yeah… And as for work, yeah, it’s good. I’ll be sticking around for as long as I can. I like it. It’s varied. Keeps me on my toes…”

Greg smiled, and John’s chest gave a bit of a sad squeeze. “Well, you’re the best doctor we’ve had for a long time. The PCs like you, and the crims co-operate, so I’m glad you came along when you did. Do you miss the army?”

“Yeah.” John leaned back as his steak re-appeared, significantly browner than before. “Thanks. Yeah, I miss it a bit. I miss the lads. The travel. Definitely don’t miss being shot at.”

“Oh, I bet. How is that, by the way?” Greg pointed at John’s shoulder with his fork.

“It’s ok. Could have been a lot worse.” John bit into his meat. It was definitely over-done. Being pregnant was the worst. He sipped at his soft drink to help it down.

“Look, I know might be somewhere close to the mark,” Greg said, tearing his naan, “but we’re going to be looking for a full-time medic in a week or so. Doctor Brown is leaving us for greener pastures, and…” he left the sentence hanging.

John forked up some chips. “I don’t know. Sherlock’s consulting, and if he needs me and I’m working…”

“That’s not an issue,” Greg shrugged, “it would just count towards your hours. You’d be better off, financially. Pension, benefits, that sort of thing?”

 _Maternity leave_? John’s brain helpfully supplied. He ignored it. “Um. You don’t want me to interview?”

“Anything that saves me time is ok by me. We’d advertise, and then… Look, it’s not what you know, around here.” Greg gave him a roguish grin, and John found himself wondering how old he was, and now John thought about it, he was quite handsome. John hadn’t had a lot of the second trimester lust, and he’d been too busy moping around after Sherlock so far, but (and his omega brain started to run away with him) Greg had always been nice to him, and surely he’d be supportive of John in the workplace, he was always progressive, and –

“I’d rather have you on the books than someone who’d going to… I don’t know, go off on maternity leave after a year, or something,” the detective inspector laughed.

John’s appetite, in every sense of the word, suddenly evaporated. “…yeah.”

Greg arranged his cutlery and picked his pint back up. “You never thought about settling down?”

John was too miserable to notice Greg’s eyes on him, again. “No. No, never been bothered about that.”

“Not the sort to have an omega in every port, then?”

“That’s sailors,” John pushed his plate away. “And no.” His stomach suddenly felt weird and swimmy. He put a hand to the side of his right hip.

Greg noticed. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” John adjusted his belt. “Yeah, I’m…” the swimming feeling returned, fluttery and… oh. Oh, that’s what it was. John suddenly wanted to flip the table and run out of the pub. He felt his expression melt into something that probably looked ghastly.

“Oh, god. You’re not going to be sick, are you?” Greg looked very wary.

“No…” John took his hand away. “No, I… think I need to get back, though.”

“Sure. You want a lift?”

“Please.”

They left the pub, and Greg gave John a lift home in the squad car. John didn’t say much, just stared ahead out of the window, letting the cold air conditioning wash over his face, and wondered why he hadn’t put two and two together before now. That strange sensation wasn’t just his insides protesting. For god’s sake, he was closing in on being halfway through this whole experience. He was definitely showing, now. Not enough to need new jeans, but when he stood in the mirror he could see the start of something that would probably be passed off as a paunch, given his age. His hips were narrow – he was old  - very old – for his first pregnancy, and if he had been younger his hips would have spread to cope with the pregnancy. As it was, John’s bones were long-since fused into place, and he could already tell he would struggle when the time came to actually deliver the baby.

So, the weird swimming fluttering thing was the baby moving.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

He was a doctor, he knew pregnancies… but, somehow, given the fact he was trying to hide this situation from everyone, he had almost ended up hiding it from himself. Even at his check-ups he had acted as though he was attending a business meeting. The fact that his baby was moving around inside him, and he could feel it…

Only he could feel it. The loneliness of his situation suddenly grabbed hold of him in a choke, not letting go.

He sighed, his breath cracking a little as his chest ached with sadness.

Greg glanced at him. Then pulled over, on the double-red lines, and stopped the car. “John,” he turned to him as he pulled the handbrake on, “John, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” John looked at him.

“Bullshit. You’re not drinking, you’re in pain as you eat, and you look like you’ve just realised you’re at death’s door. What’re you not telling me?” Greg leaned an elbow on John’s seat. “John. As a mate. What’s going on?”

John was tempted to blurt it all out, then and there.

“Are you ill? You said you were on tablets.”

“No,” John said, “I’m not sick.”

“Then what is it? You’ve not got something going on, have you? You’ve not got someone knocked up?”

John looked at him.

Greg’s face fell. “Shit, that was a joke. You haven’t, have you?”

“No!”

“Well, good. Not that I’d blame you, I mean, we all know what women and omegas are like, but that’s half your salary down the pan, right?”

“I –”

“I mean, you’ve got to watch that sort of thing, haven’t you? Even betas, I guess, have to be on guard. Nice guy, army pension, decent job, you get some woman or omega who, er, _forgets_ their pill, and then where are you? You know what they’re like.”

John stared out of the window. Rage was suddenly boiling under his skin. He knew it was hormones. It was stress. Leftover hunger because of his unfinished meal. But he couldn’t keep quiet. He couldn’t do it.

He snapped around to Greg like cracking a whip. “No, Lestrade. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. What _are_ omegas like? What are they like, Greg? You fucking tell me.”

“Hey,” Greg raised his hands. “Calm down, John, it’s just a sayi-”

“Well it fucking shouldn’t be!” John thumped the dashboard. His heart rate was rocketing. “Jesus Christ, it’s whatever fucking year it is, and you’re meant to be a fucking police officer! If anyone should be PC it’s you!”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Greg’s back was up. “What’s your problem?”

“You,” John wrenched the door open. “Right now, _mate_ , my problem is you.” He stormed out, and slammed the car door shut, starting down the pavement.

A small part of him expected Greg to yell after him. To shout, call him back. Maybe drive the car after him.

But the detective inspector sped past him, wheels spinning, into the night, leaving John in the middle of central London, by himself.

John didn’t bother checking his wallet for cash for a cab. He walked to the nearest tube station, and got on the underground. By the time he got back to Baker Street, he had calmed down enough to get his phone out. As much as it pained him, he needed to swallow his pride. He couldn’t afford Greg Lestrade to fall out with him. He needed that job.

Greg picked up on the third ring. “What.”

“Don’t hang up,” John said. “I’m sorry for yelling. I lost my temper.”

Greg sighed. “John, I get what you were saying. Yeah, I spoke out of turn. I don’t think all omegas are like… that. But what’s with the reaction, mate?”

John squeezed his eyes shut, for a moment. “I…” he shook his head at himself. “It’s a… family thing.”

There was another sigh. “Look, I’m putting your name down for the medic job,” Greg said. “I’m sorry I was an arsehole about omegas.”

“I’m sorry I went mental.”

“Right, then. Clean slate. And next time, let’s actually finish our dinner, right?”

John laughed. “Sure, mate.”

There was a pause. “And talk to me, yeah? Whatever was troubling you, it started before I opened my gob, didn’t it? I’m your boss, but I’m your friend first, ok? I can’t see Sherlock being easy to offload onto.”

“He’s not bad,” John looked up at the flat. Sadness suddenly dropped through him like a hot knife through butter. “He could be better.”

“Well. The offer is there. I mean it, ok?”

“Thanks,” John sighed. “And… thanks again for the lift.”

“Maybe we’ll get you all the way home, next time?”

“Maybe. See you.”

“See you Monday.”

John put his phone away, and stared up at the flat again. He could see the living room light was on. Sherlock was probably tinkering with things in the kitchen.

The baby in John’s uterus rolled over. He flinched.

He was in such a mess.

 

*

 

Sherlock’s phone pinged gently. He looked at it on the table beside him.

 **Week Nineteen!**  
  
**Your baby is now the size of a mango**

**and he or she weighs 8 ounces**

“Hm.” He dismissed the notification. The app had been an excellent investment for 99p. Knowledge was cheap, these days. He had seen the tiny scan pictures John brought home the other week, and you could almost make out that the thing in there was a human being. Or, would be, one day. John had put one of the pictures on the mantlepiece until he got nervous and took it down, worried Lestrade would burst in and see it and ask questions.

It was proof of how stupid Lestrade was that he hadn’t noticed already.

You could tell, now, if you knew what you were looking for. John had arrived at Baker Street with a washboard stomach and an army-boy stance. He now had a tiny curve of the belly, and he walked with a slight roll of his hips.

Not that Sherlock had been looking. There was nothing wrong with observation.

And John was interesting to observe. Everything about him still screamed _beta_. From his straight shoulders to his unironed shirts to his muscular arms and legs… even when they had kissed – and Sherlock’s groin tensed weirdly when he thought of it – John had been fighting to be in control, to be on top…

Sherlock wondered if he had ever penetrated anyone.

The thought was decidedly distracting.

He shrugged.

He didn’t care about it. Not really. He didn’t care about omegas, or babies, or even John, beyond what was polite for flatmates. Maybe John was more interesting than most people, and he wasn’t a total idiot, but the fact was… he was pregnant. With another alpha’s baby. And Sherlock would not allow his interest in the situation to become anything other than… being interested. In the facts.

He sat up from his microscope.

Perhaps it would have been better if John hadn’t come to live here.

Sherlock cursed his own curiosity as he leaned back over the samples. He had known John was an omega from the start, but he didn’t foresee… and this pregnancy thing…

“And when, little brother, did you plan on introducing me to your flat-mate?”

Sherlock didn’t jump, through a lifetime of conditioning. He didn’t even look up from his work. “Mycroft.”

“You’ve held onto this one for _months_. Is it drugs?”

“Him, or me?” Sherlock twiddled the knob on his microscope.

Mycroft made an irritated noise. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up at last. “Is there any reason you’re taking so much interest in my personal life, Mycroft?”

“I just wondered if there was more to this… arrangement than you were choosing to share.” Mycroft put his hands behind his back. “His security checks out, you’ll be thrilled to know. Interesting history.”

“You mean the army?”

“That’s one thing, yes…” Mycroft tilted his head to the side. “It appears that Doctor Watson has had his records amended… or amended them himself, several times.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. For some reason, he felt rather protective over John’s privacy.

“You knew.”

“I suspected.”

“But it didn’t concern you.”

“No.”

Mycroft almost smiled. “Doesn’t it strike you as… odd?”

“It strikes me as none of my business.”

“Pssh,” Mycroft snorted. “Your business is exactly what you’d like to try and make it. You’re intrigued.”

“Professionally. You wouldn’t be?”

They stared one another down.

Mycroft sighed. “Just be –”

The front door slammed. “Sherlock!” the sound of John kicking his shoes off could be heard. “Are you in? We owe Lestrade a few weeks of niceness, I think. I pissed him off a bit earlier. And nearly dropped the ball with – oh, hello.” John stopped in the doorway. He looked at Sherlock. “I didn’t realise you had company.”

“John, this is my brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock said quickly. “Mycroft, Doctor John Watson.”

They shook hands. “I thought it was _Captain_?” Mycroft asked.

“Depends who’s asking,” John smiled, letting go quickly, as he always did. “Are you staying for dinner?” He looked at Sherlock. “Greg took me out, so I’m all set.”

Something like annoyance flashed under Sherlock’s skin. Why should _Lestrade_ be taking John anywhere by himself? “No,” he found himself saying, “no, he isn’t staying.”

Mycroft seemed to be giving John an intense stare, though it vanished when John looked back at him.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m going to change out of my work things.” John vanished up the stairs.

Mycroft went over to Sherlock like lightning. “ _What is this_?” he hissed.

“What’s what?” Sherlock blinked. “You knew he changed his gender on his file.”

“Of course I knew that,” Mycroft whispered. “But… dear god why would you keep this from me?”

“I…” Sherlock’s mind tried to catch up. He was suddenly torn between protecting himself and protecting John – a situation he had never been in before. He had always put himself first. But now… “Keep what from you, Mycroft?”

“You can’t honestly think you can lie to me.” Mycroft glanced towards the door. “Do what you like in private, but you need to include your family in things like this. And why haven’t you bonded with him?”

Sherlock’s brain screeched to a halt as realisation crashed into it. “You… can tell he’s…”

“Of course I can tell! Why were you keeping this a secret, Sherlock?”

Sherlock put a hand to Mycroft’s chest, and pushed him away, slightly. “Mycroft, you have misread the situation.”

“…how?”

“John… it isn’t mine.”

Mycroft stepped back. “Oh. I see. Then…” a frown passed over his face. “Then why is he living here?”

Sherlock’s mouth felt very dry. “I didn’t realise, when he moved in, that…”

Mycroft looked up, as if he could see through the floorboards, then back at Sherlock, scandalised. “You can’t continue this.”

“Continue what?”

“This! This… living situation. You cannot _possibly_ continue to live with an unbonded, pregnant omega, Sherlock.”

“Why not?”

“Sherlock! Even you must have enough social awareness to realise that to continue to fraternise with this man will only bring you down. People will assume he is yours, and that the – the infant is, too, and –”

“It’s alright,” John said.

The two brothers looked over.

John stood in his jogging bottoms, bare feet on the floorboards, a soft t-shirt giving no hint at all that he was expecting. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll make sure no one thinks it’s Sherlock’s. If anyone says anything, I’ll tell them the truth.”

Mycroft blushed red. “Doctor Watson, if I have offended you –”

“You wouldn’t be the first person, today,” John went over to the fridge, and took out a slab of chocolate.

Sherlock glared at his brother. “Mycroft, you need to leave.”

Mycroft gave him a nod. “Sherlock. Doctor Watson.”

John shrugged, and snapped off some chocolate as Mycroft left.

Sherlock put his head in his hands. “John, I am so –”

“Don’t worry about it.” John swallowed his mouthful. “It’s not been a good day for tolerance.”

Sherlock looked up. “Lestrade…?”

“Yep.” More chocolate went into John’s mouth. “He doesn’t know, before you get worked up.”

Sherlock got up from the table. “What did he say?”

John shrugged, but Sherlock could see his hands shaking. “Just some… crap about omegas getting pregnant.” He put the chocolate down on the counter. “I stormed out of his car.”

“That doesn’t matter –”

“After he offered me a job.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted.

John looked at the ceiling. “I want this job. I need it, really. But when he finds out I’ve lied to him…”

“You haven’t lied.”

“I’ve not been honest.” John put a hand to his stomach. Pressing the fabric against himself, Sherlock could see the curve of him better, and it made him feel very strange. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

Sherlock tore his eyes away. “What are you suggesting?”

“I need to come off scenters,” John said. “Let everyone figure it out.”

“Are you… sure?”

“No,” John shook his head. “No, I’m not. I don’t want them to know. But Molly already figured it out, and she’s not the sharpest stick, bless her. She is an omega, though. That should give her an edge. Why have you never gone out with her?”

The question came right out of the blue, making Sherlock blink hurriedly. “Er. What? I don’t –”

“She likes you, she’s intelligent, and she’s from a good family,” John listed. “You should ask her.”

“I don’t… want to?”

“Why?”

Sherlock raised a hand. “Hang on – why are we now talking about Molly? You’re the one who’s upset.”

“It doesn’t matter how I’m feeling,” John folded his arms. “Alright?”

“No, that’s not alright,” Sherlock snapped. “What does it –”

John put a hand to his stomach, and winced.

Hot prickles of horror suddenly ran over Sherlock’s skull. “Oh god, are you –”

“It’s the baby,” John said. “It started moving the other day, I think, but I’ve only just sort of twigged that’s what it is. It feels like… I’ve got a mouse trapped under my skin, or something.”

Sherlock stared.

John took his hand away. “I’m going to bed. I don’t want to do this, anymore.”

Sherlock didn’t move, so John had to brush past him as he went. Neither of them commented, and Sherlock tried not to register why he felt warm where John’s arm had connected with his own. “Wait,” he said. “John… do what? You don’t want to do what, anymore?”

John stopped at the doorway. He looked around. “Any of it. I’ve fucked up, and it’s too late, now. But I’ve had enough. I made a mistake.” He left the room.

Sherlock leaned against the table. Even through the fog of his buzzing mind, he couldn’t understand how John could think having his baby was going to be a mistake.


	7. Chapter 7

Twenty-one weeks.

Twenty-one, and John couldn’t fasten the button on his jeans. Well, he could, if he lay back on his bed. But when he stood up, the metal button pressed painfully into his skin, and his zip started to give way. He’d left it too late to go and buy some new jeans.

Cursing under his breath, John pulled on his joggers instead, and went rather sheepishly downstairs, where Sherlock was reading the papers. The alpha looked up in quiet surprise.

“I thought we were going to the Yard?”

“I… yeah, I thought so, too,” John sighed, putting crumpets in the toaster. “Bit of a jeans incident.”

“Incident?”

“I can’t fasten them up, if you must know.” John turned around, and folded his arms. “I should have bought some new ones the other day, but I thought I’d be fine, and…”

“And?”

“And I hate baby shops,” he said. “Maternity clothes. All the stuff that comes with it.”

“What stuff?” Sherlock lowered his paper.

John groaned, and hid his face. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t know, and I don’t want to tell you, ok? It’s… embarrassing.”

Sherlock considered. “Is it… birth equipment?”

“Oh my _god_ , shut up,” John snatched his crumpets they popped up.

“I’m just asking.”

“Yeah, well, it’s none of your business, is it?”

“Fine. I won’t ask anymore.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

John scraped butter onto his crumpets, and took an overlarge bite of one, angrily. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. How could he talk about milk pads or maternity towels or pressure stockings with Sherlock when he couldn’t even talk about them to himself? He didn’t have a single item of baby equipment. He didn’t even have a clue where they were going to sleep.

Sherlock came over, and put his teacup into the sink. “John,” he said without turning around, “if you wanted, I could fetch you some new trousers.”

John almost choked. He forced down the mouthful of food, and looked aghast at Sherlock. “You… what?”

“If you tell me your size, I’ll go and fetch you some. Since you dislike the establishments so much.”

John didn’t know what to say. _Thank you_ seemed so redundant. “Um… yeah. That’d be a big help. Thank – thank you.”

“It isn’t a problem.”

“It’s not… you don’t have to –”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock turned around. “You can’t wear those all day, anyway. I can’t be seen with you looking like that.”

John burst out laughing. “Well, you’re not wrong, there. It’ll be bad enough when…” he stopped. “Sherlock… in all seriousness… you know what people will think. When I get bigger.”

“People do little else but _think_. It’s their ignorance, not mine. Ours. And afterwards…”

“Afterwards, it might not be an issue,” John said quickly.

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean?”

John pressed his lips together, and leaned on the counter-top. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe this isn’t the best situation to bring up a baby.”

“Granted, it isn’t ideal, but you could be worse –”

“And maybe,” John interrupted, “someone could do a better job than me.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “You’re talking about adoption.”

“It’s an option,” John shrugged. A great weight had settled on his chest, and his throat ached. “I just don’t see what else… it’s going to go its whole life knowing its mother didn’t bond, and its father was a… absent.” He rubbed at the scars on his arms. “When it could have a real family, where the omega and alpha love each other, and want to look after it. Both of them.” He rubbed at his eyebrows. “Sorry. It’s…”

Sherlock came over, and put a hand to John’s arm. “John… what’s brought this on? You said you wanted to be a parent.”

“I do,” John sniffed, forcing himself not to cry. Omegas cried. He didn’t. “I don’t want to be pregnant, but I’d do my best as a mum, and….. but this isn’t right. This isn’t fair on _them_ ,” he put a hand to the curve of his belly. “I don’t –”

“John. John, I have no experience in these affairs, but I know for a fact that you would be a wonderful parent. But if this really is your decision…” he suddenly looked heartbroken.

Why?

“I’ll think about it,” John said, not moving away. “I don’t think it’s something I should rule out, that’s all.”

“If you think that is best.”

Their faces were now very close.

 _Say it_ , John silently begged. _Say you’ll help me look after it. Say you’ll be there, be a second parent even though it isn’t yours. God, just_ say it _, won’t you?_

Sherlock squeezed John’s arm, and moved away. “I’ll go out now, and get those trousers for you.”

“Thank you,” John sighed, bitter with disappointment, but disappointment he expected. “I usually have a 32, but…”

“I’ll ask, if I have to.”

John nodded. “Thanks, Sherlock. You’re… not bad. Sometimes.”

“I know,” Sherlock picked up his wallet. “And… and you.” He left, leaving John alone again, torn between wants and decisions.

 

*

 

John unpacked the bags Sherlock had brought home, feeling torn and strange.

Sherlock hadn’t just bought a pair of jeans. He’d come home with an entire closet. There were three pairs of trousers with sewn-in elastic sections, two lightweight knitted jumpers, four formal shirts, and a smart jacket.

“Are they suitable?” Sherlock asked, bringing two cups of tea over to the sofa.

“You didn’t need to do this,” John said.

“No, but the assistant said it was easier to disguise a bump with clothes that fit rather than trying to squeeze into your old ones. And given your reluctance to –”

“Yes, I get it. Thank you. I’ll pay you back when I get –”

“It doesn’t matter.”

John didn’t bother to argue. He folded the clothes up, onto his knee, touching the fabrics between finger and thumb. He picked up the carrier bag to fold it, too, then stopped.

There was something at the bottom of it.

He reached in, and fished out something very small, and very soft, and very white.

He held up a sleepsuit, so small it looked like it ought to belong to a doll.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Oh,” Sherlock blushed, for a moment. “It was close to the till. I, er… I didn’t think you had… It’s just…”

“It’s very nice,” John said, his throat on fire. Even his jaw seemed to ache at the sight of the tiny suit. There were little bumps at the bottom where feet would go, and there were gloves attached by a string for tiny hands. The hood of the sleepsuit had bunny ears.

John couldn’t imagine Sherlock buying it. It seemed completely out of the question.

“But,” he choked out, “but I don’t even know if I’m…”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I’m not trying to influence your decision, I just… liked it. And I thought you might like it, too.”

John lowered the sleepsuit, and looked sadly at the size of it on his knee.

“Drink your tea, we still have to go to the Yard, this afternoon.”

John nodded, and gathered up the clothes, including the baby’s outfit. “I’ll just take these upstairs…” and he half-ran up the stairs to his room, dropping everything onto the bed as if it was on fire.

For the first time, he could imagine hold a baby the size of that sleepsuit in his arms. A person. A tiny, little person.

And he had no one at all beside himself to look after them.

They would be so small, and so new, and so unique…

How could he have even _thought_ about giving them up?

And how could he possibly think about keeping them?


	8. Chapter 8

“It’s come to my attention,” Mycroft said softly, “that you have been considering… adoptive parents. For the – your – baby.”

John pointed a biscuit at Mycroft. “First of all, you’re not supposed to be in here, this is a police station, and this is our break room. Secondly, keep your bloody voice down. And thirdly… are you stalking me?”

“No.”

“Sherlock told you.”

“No, rest assured that Sherlock continues to attempt to keep me in the dark about anything and everything remotely connected to his life.”

John bit the custard cream in half. He’d been for the last scan he’d be having before the baby was born, and he went by himself. The midwives rumbled him for his “absent mate” lie, this time, and treated him as though he was covered in fleas – only touching him with their fingertips, and desperately trying to rush him out of the ultrasound room. So much that John only got a fleeting glimpse of his baby, and only one photograph to take away. At least it was a decent one. It lived in his wallet.

“So, you looked at my internet history. Well, the joke’s on you, because there’s nothing even slightly incriminating on there.” John swallowed.

“Aside from the government guidelines on adoption, of course.”

John glanced at the open door. “That’s not incriminating, Mycroft. This has nothing to do with you. It’s not your family. You shouldn’t keep fucking tabs on me!”

Mycroft pushed the door closed with his umbrella, and took a seat on the sagging sofa, leaving a decent space between himself and John. He gave him a quick glance over. “Twenty-four weeks. You’re showing,” he said.

“Only when you know,” John huffed, sitting up straighter.

“No, it’s clearly either too much ice cream, or a baby. And you’re off scenters, correct?”

John blushed, by way of an answer.

“You realise that won’t help if you’re continuing to attempt to hide it. Before, with a beta scent, you would have been assumed to be gaining weight, but now…” Mycroft sighed. “Have you told your employer, yet?”

“No,” John blushed harder. The ink was barely dry on his new contract, which he’d handed in only a few days ago. A full-time position, permanent, with all the benefits that came with. He was now entitled to parental leave, but no one would have a clue that he was planning to take it in about three months.

“You have returned your new contract, correct?”

John nodded. “But I didn’t say anything.”

Mycroft tapped his chin with a finger. “I’m sure something can be done. But to get back to why I’m here…” he undid his briefcase, and took out two card folders, and handed them to John.

John opened the first one. His stomach clenched, and it felt like a stone had just thumped down into what was left of it. A couple, smiling together in a posed photograph, looked out at him from the contents of the file. He picked up the picture. Two men, their hands clasped tight, one tall, one not-so tall, both of them immaculately dressed as if going to meet someone important.

“This is a couple looking for a baby,” John said, looking up at Mycroft. “Why are you doing this?”

Mycroft gave a small smile. “I know I have no connection to you or your child whatsoever, but, despite what Sherlock thinks, I am not entirely heartless. If you handed your baby over to the system you could not choose where he or she ended up. These two families…” he nodded at the files, “…would make wonderful homes.”

“Vetted them personally, have you?”

“The background checks I conduct are a step beyond those of even child protection,” Mycroft said.

John put the photo back, and opened the second file. A man and a woman smiled up at him, this time. He closed both of the files. “Mycroft… I don’t even know if I want…”

“Take your time,” the alpha stood. “I understand this is more a matter of the heart and soul than of simple pragmatism. If you do decide to keep… the baby, then…” he paused, and looked slightly confused for a moment.

“You don’t want me to stay at Baker Street, do you?”

Mycroft frowned for an instant, then looked back at John, as unreadable as ever. “That is your decision. And Sherlock’s.”

“Sherlock has nothing to do with this.”

Mycroft didn’t reply.

John sighed. “You want him to want it, don’t you?”

“What I want is for him to realise the reality of the situation,” Mycroft said. “You _will_ be mistaken for a couple. You are even beginning to smell alike due to your proximity. If he wishes for you to be in a relationship, as much as I worry about the idea, it would be a logical and safe conclusion to the matter. To continue to maintain this friendship with no acknowledgement of the scandal…” he stopped.

John’s face was stone. “Scandal,” he repeated.

Mycroft pinched between his eyes. “I misspoke. I’m sorry –”

John raised a hand. “You want Sherlock to take me on because it’d be less of a scandal than him living with me as a friend? That’s… sick, Mycroft. He’s a grown man. I’m a grown man! I don’t need adopting, I’m as old as I am and I’ve got this far in my life without being treated like… like I need looking after.” John knew he was starting to raise his voice, but couldn’t help it. “Sherlock isn’t interested in anything romantic, but neither has he tried to kick me out of the flat, when he very well could have done. He doesn’t tiptoe around me like I’m some fragile omega made of glass that might break at any moment. He’s been more supportive than my own family. If he wants me to leave, I’m sure he won’t exactly mince his words.” John pushed the files back at Mycroft. “Take them away. I don’t want to look at them.”

“John –”

“I mean it. Take them with you, or I’ll just shred them anyway.”

Mycroft took them. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

“I know I am,” John said. “But I don’t need you to fix it.”

 

*

 

John could feel Lestrade looking sideways at him. He wished he wouldn’t. He’d been tensed-up, holding his stomach in, for the past few minutes. He’d been off scent blockers for three weeks, and already some of the more sensitive-nosed alphas were giving him confused looks. He’d been asked out, twice, by alpha men who looked as though they didn’t really understand _why_ they felt compelled to ask John if he wanted to get a coffee. John had casually turned the offers down, as if he didn’t understand himself.

“Your contract’s gone through,” Greg said, looking back at his own computer screen. The station office was empty, aside from the two of them, working late.

John exhaled. “That’s great. Good to know.”

“So, if you’ve got any holidays coming up, put them in as soon as you can before some other bugger does.”

John’s typing paused. Then resumed. “How long can I have off at once?”

“They get a bit arsey up at HR if it’s longer than two weeks. There’s different allowances for omegas, of course, and alphas if they’re… with them.” He cleared his throat, and went a bit red.

John felt surprised. Lestrade didn’t strike him as the type to blush. “You’re not… married, are you, Greg?”

“Not anymore,” he gave a rueful smile.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah. We wanted different things. Specifically, she wanted her ski instructor.” Greg rolled his eyes. “Better off out of it. We were only kids when we got married, just out of uni. Luckily no children to make things messy.”

John nodded. “Yeah, children make things difficult. I imagine.”

“Lucky we’re both free agents, then?” Greg beamed suddenly. “Nothing tying us down?”

John gave a small smile back. Was – was Greg being… flirty? He wasn’t very good at it, if he was. “Maybe not forever, though,” he said, lamely. The baby chose that moment to roll over inside him, as if it was reminding him of its existence. He went back to his typing, failing to ignore how Greg glanced at him every few minutes.

Guilt wormed around John’s stomach. He liked Greg. Not like _that_ , but he liked him as a friend. Respected him, even. He was an alpha who didn’t throw his weight around too much, and he was easy to work with as long as you weren’t dicking around. But if he was starting to react to John’s changing scent…

John was going to have to say something. If his omega scent was returning this quickly, he’d be outed before he got chance to control the situation. Greg would never work with him again. He’s feel lied to, and rightly so.

“Tea?” Greg pushed his chair back as he stood.

“Decaf, please,” John forced a smile, then exhaled again as Greg left the room. He adjusted the elastic waistband of his jeans, and got up from his own desk, going over to the file cabinet behind Greg’s desk. He’d needed to get it some records for ages, but since Greg was right there… John quickly dug through the folders, cursing. He needed to be able to see…

He pushed the footstool over, and climbed up, able to read the names better, at least.

His bump pressed against the cold cabinet.

 

_“As big as a papaya,” Sherlock had said the night before. “And viable. That means that if you went into labour now, there’s a chance it would–”_

_“Shut up, Sherlock,” John had snarled. “I don’t even want to_ think _about that.”_

_“And your antenatal class starts the day after tomorrow,” Sherlock went on, either oblivious or intentionally winding John up, it was difficult to tell which._

_“Why do you even keep track of all this?” John muttered into his toast._

_Sherlock looked up. “I don’t. I just find it helpful to know your whereabouts.”_

_“No, I mean… the size, and stuff. You know more than me.” John put his crust down, and looked over at Sherlock, who looked confused. “You get baby updates, but I don’t. You’ve been reading the websites, but I haven’t. What’s that about?”_

_Sherlock frowned slightly. “I… it seems to me that…” he paused, and steepled his fingers. “In the interest of the work, it seems sensible to keep abreast of your medical condition, and what you’re capable of.”_

_John stared, for a moment. “Right. That’s it, then?”_

_“What else could it be?” Sherlock dropped his hands._

_“I don’t know.” John walked into the kitchen to put his crockery into the sink. “I really don’t know.”_

 

“There you are, you bastard,” John extracted the medical file he needed, just as Greg came walking back in with two cups of tea.

Greg’s eyes widened slightly as he watched John get down off the stool. “John?”

“Sorry,” John slid the cabinet drawer shut. “That needs a bit of a tidy, in there. I’ll sort it tomorrow, if I get chance.”

“John…”

“Mm?” John looked over.

Greg’s face was suddenly ashen.

John looked down at where his untucked shirt had ridden up. At the tight curve of flesh crescenting between cotton shirt and elastic trouser-band.

The baby gave a few kicks of alarm as its mother’s heartrate suddenly kicked into top gear.

“Ok,” John said slowly, looking back at Greg’s face. “I can explain?”

“Exp…” Greg put the mugs down on the closest desk. “John… what the fuck is going on?”

John adjusted his clothes, managing to smooth over his bump as he did so. “It’s… look, I’m sorry –”

“You… how… and you’ve been… since… but how…” Greg rubbed his forehead as if trying to get some more blood into his brain. “Jesus Christ, John. Tell me this is some sort of dream. Or joke.”

John shook his head. “I was going to tell you –”

“When?!” Greg exploded. “When were you…” he gestured silently at John. “Oh my god. And you’ve been on scenes, and around god knows what, and…” he shuddered. “But what about… you’re not bonded, why…” he looked at John again in utter disbelief. “What’s going on?”

John took a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

Greg indicated the empty station. “I’m not going anywhere.” He sat down in the nearest chair. “Go on, John. Tell me what in Christ’s name is going on.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Sherlock's POV. Enjoy!

Sherlock heard the taxi pull up in front of the flats. He stood up from the little table in the living room, and watched through the net curtain as John clambered out, and shut the cab door behind himself. The cab drove off, but John stood on the pavement for a moment, looking straight ahead, presumably at the front door.

“Delaying on the doorstep…” Sherlock muttered under his breath as he heard John’s keys finally make contact with the lock. Sherlock closed his laptop, and went to open the door to the flat. John had been starting to puff when he went up the stairs, lately. It helped if he could simply propel himself through the doorway instead of having to try and manipulate the stiff handle, as well.

John was already breathing a touch harder than usual (nothing anyone would have like noticed) as he took off his shoes. He also hadn’t shouted to ask if Sherlock was in.

Odd.

Sherlock stepped away from the doorway. Something had happened.

John marched up the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other beneath his bump. It was pleasantly obvious, now. A curve that rose and turned under his clothes that could no longer really be passed off as a paunch. It would be a lie to say it suited John, because it did not. The man did not have an omega’s lithe physique, or gentle curves. He was, even now, months out of the armed forced, built solidly, with lines of muscle and strength. His body did not look like the sort intended to create and support life, but yet…

“Everything alright?” Sherlock had to ask, as John stormed into the flat like a drill-sergeant.

“No.” John stood for a moment, then took off his jacket, hanging it on the hook with venom. “No, really, not.”

Sherlock frowned. “What happened?”

“What do you think?” John pointed with both hands as his stomach. “Matter of fucking time, wasn’t it?”

“…Lestrade?”

“Yeah.”

They stared at one another.

“Are you sacked?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. “I don’t know. He said he needed to think about it.”

 

 _“I can’t_ believe _you kept this a secret,” Greg moaned, putting his face into his hands. “You’re up shit creek, John, you really are. Why didn’t you just_ say _?”_

_“About what? Being an…” John couldn’t get the word out._

_“Yes, about being an omega,” Greg hissed. “And being up the duff. Christ almighty, what are you two thinking? You’ve been around dead bodies and chemicals, and –”_

_“Two?” John interrupted._

_“I get hanging on for a bit until you know it’s all safe and everything, but this is_ work _, John, there’s rules and regulations, and Sherlock can’t skip through the ones he doesn’t feel apply to him or you –”_

_John folded his arms. “What does Sherlock have to do with this?”_

_Greg halted, mouth still open in mid-rant. “Wait.” He swallowed. “Wait… oh god. How… when…” his eyes dropped to John’s stomach. And his face went ashen. “Oh, shit.”_

_John resisted the urge to cover his stomach, and just stared the detective down._

_“Oh, shit, John,” Greg repeated. “It’s not Sherlock’s is it?”_

“He would be an absolute idiot to let you go,” Sherlock said. “You’re the best doctor the precinct has ever had, and you’re invaluable to my cases, besides.”

John looked mollified for a moment, but it quickly faded. “I don’t think that’s going to count for shit when HR heard about what they’ve employed. Single omega mother? I’ll be given a quick back-hander and shown the door. You’ve heard the stories.”

“It’s illegal to sack you on gender discrimination.”

“You think that’ll stop them?”

Sherlock shut his mouth. He could see fire in John’s eyes, and besides… he knew the truth of the matter. Omegas were regularly fired, if and when they were employed at all. They’d be given a vague assessment of being unsuited to the job, and some money, and told not to come back.

John would be no different. Even the police force would struggle to justify why they had a fallen omega on the books.

John sighed, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’ve fucked everything up.”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly, “no, this isn’t… we can make them see reason. I…” he brightened. “I won’t work with them, if they don’t continue your employment.”

John looked up. “What?”

“I’ll simply refuse to work with them unless you have a job, there.”

John looked around, as if Sherlock might be talking to someone else. “You’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because they could say no!” John stepped forward. “They could weigh up the pros and cons and decide they don’t need the hassle.”

“Then we’ll take private clients. Lord knows we get enough enquiries.”

John looked flabbergasted.

“A simple solution,” Sherlock shrugged. “Don’t you think?”

John nodded. “I guess… it is.” He gave a quick smile. “But… you love working with Lestrade?”

“That’s not the term I’d use.”

“Alright, but… you enjoy it.”

 _This is more important._ Sherlock almost said, then didn’t. “It doesn’t matter.”

John huffed out a sigh, and came quickly forward, yanking Sherlock down into a firm hug. “Thank you.”

“That’s… quite alright…” Sherlock stood stiffly in the hug, and gave John’s back a small pat. Then…

Like two softening bits of candle-wax, their bodies shifted, just enough to turn the hug into an embrace. John’s head tucked under Sherlock’s chin, and his soft belly pushed against Sherlock’s solid flat one, and they were still holding each other, in the stark bright lights of the living room.

Sherlock realised his eyes were closed, and he opened them quickly. His breath caught in his throat. John’s returning omega scent was flooding down his nostrils, and for a moment Sherlock felt dirty – as though he was some sort of thief, or voyeur… John hadn’t given him permission to scent him, but he was so close Sherlock really had no choice, and…

John looked up at him. His dark blue eyes were wide, and shining with emotion, and they flicked down to Sherlock’s mouth, once.

Something happened, deep within Sherlock’s body, like the gears of a forgotten mechanism beginning to turn. Something was starting to work.

“I know I said I don’t want this unless it’s going to be… a thing,” John whispered. “But… can I take that back?”

Sherlock blinked. _You don’t want a relationship?_ “What do you mean?”

“Do you want me to spell it out?” John went red, and pushed his hips against Sherlock’s. “I just… it’s been a rough fucking day, and…”

Sherlock kissed him. He had to, or else drop dead on the floor, it seemed. It was as though some sort of engine was driving him limbs, his hands as they clasped around John’s skull, holding his face… all of him was trembling with built-up steam, a drive to move, to _own_ …

John surged up into the kiss with what seemed like relief. He kissed back with hard determination, quickly escaping the hold on his face and grasping Sherlock’s wrists.

Sherlock’s inner alpha did a double-take at the display on dominance. He broke the kiss for a second, and looked at the tight grip on his wrist, and back to John’s face.

John gave a rueful grin. “I don’t play like that, Sherlock.”

“I never expected you to,” Sherlock breathed.

And then they kissed again, John walking Sherlock backwards until the alpha’s back hit the wall, and John had him pinned. Their lips kissed frantically – a tousle rather than a caress, with barely any tongue at all, just rapid-fire kissing, over and over, until John skimmed his tongue over Sherlock’s plump lower lip, and Sherlock dropped his jaw, letting John taste as much of him as he could get to.

John moaned as he pulled back for air, looking up at Sherlock like he’d never seen him before. “No… no strings, yeah? Just… tonight… This isn’t going anywhere…”

Sherlock would later recall that he heard that last sentence in two different ways, at the same time.

 _This is_ not _going anywhere_.

 _This isn’t_ going _anywhere?_

He would also be unable to tell you which one he was responding to, when he nodded his head, and grabbed John by the shoulders to make him kiss him again.

John responded greedily, the grip he had on Sherlock’s wrists tightening, then releasing on one wrist as John’s hand moved to Sherlock’s throat, his clavicle, his buttons, popping two of them open to slip a warm hand inside, battle-roughened fingers grazing over the alpha’s nipple.

Sherlock made a sort of choking noise as his flesh tightened and tingled at the touch. “God – what –”

“You thought that only omegas liked that?” John dragged a fingernail over the tight, sensitive skin.

“No, I…” Sherlock almost squeaked as John moved to the other side of his chest.

“You make lovely noises,” John smiled. “I’d’ve thought you’d be silent, and difficult to please.”

“Only in every other area of my lifffffff…” Sherlock bit down on his lip as John kissed his neck, teeth dragging over his skin as he continued to tease at the alpha’s nipple. This was all backwards. Sherlock was supposed to be in John’s place. Alphas were supposed to take charge, and yet here he was, being reduced to an uncommunicative mess by a few simple touches.

John grinned, and Sherlock felt it against his throat. John’s soft bump was pressing against him, and Sherlock badly wanted to touch it, but knew without even asking that it would be unwelcome. If John wanted to pretend it wasn’t there, then so be it.

Their kisses met again, this time deeper, and with hands moving with more purpose. John flinched as Sherlock touched over his arse, then shuddered and ground against him as Sherlock changed to touch at his crotch, instead.

“Fuck,” John breathed, rolling his hips hard. “God, can we…”

“My room,” Sherlock looked across at the door.

“ _My_ room.” John pulled Sherlock off the wall. “Two minutes?”

“Yes…” Sherlock couldn’t help glancing down at his own evident arousal.

John reached out with a finger and touched at Sherlock’s erection through his trousers. Sherlock gasped. John grinned. “Make that one minute.” He darted up the stairs as quickly as he could.

Sherlock darted into the bathroom. He didn’t bother with his teeth – they had already kissed, John knew what he was getting into – and made the rest of himself as presentable as he could manage, before flying up the stairs.

John’s bedroom door was open, and John stood there, still fully clothed except for his socks.

There was no finesse, whatsoever.

They crashed together like two sides of a storm, moving quickly, undressing one another in the sort of haste you only get when to pause or to stop would mean realising this might not be a smart idea. John kissed over Sherlock’s skin like it was a divine right, and Sherlock scraped his nails down John’s back, raking up gooseflesh in their path. Sherlock’s shirt was quickly thrown to the floor, though John kept his on, preferring to drop his trousers as Sherlock’s hand snaked under the waistband, and took hold of the hardness inside.

“Oh, fuck…” John thumped his head forward onto Sherlock’s chest. His hips gave a trembling thrust up into the grip, that had him through his briefs. “Sherlock…”

“Get these off,” Sherlock shoved at the trousers slipping down John’s thighs, and John moaned in frustration as he had to step back out of Sherlock’s touch in over to get his trousers all the way off.

Sherlock planted himself on the bed, biting his lip as John stood, hesitant for only a second, before dropping his underwear as well.

If Sherlock had been in any doubt as to John’s gender up to that point, the view he now had would have confirmed it. John walked over, not confident in his body, but resigned. His thick thighs and muscular legs were off-set by the soft roundness of his belly (that the shirt didn’t quite hide), and his cock, though erect, was small and jutting from above a soft cushion of flesh that served no purpose at all, as John was incapable of fathering children.

Sherlock wet his lips with his tongue. A sort of heat was gathering over his skin and condensing at his groin. His own cock was starting to ache, and he pressed the palm of his hand to it as John got closer, not bothering to hide his arousal over the sight in front of him.

John gave a tiny smirk as he watched Sherlock touch himself. “And here I was worried.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock looked up at him, the change in height difference make his skin tingle.

John shook his head. “You’re a bastard.”

“I know.”

John stroked a hand over Sherlock’s hair, teasing through the curls. Then pulled his head forward.

Sherlock just had time to wet his lips again before the hot head of John’s cock pressed against them, and slipped through into the alpha’s mouth. Sherlock moaned around it, and gripped John’s thighs in his hands as John penetrated his mouth completely. This was only possible due to John’s size, but Sherlock was not about to complain. His nose was pressed against the thatch of John’s crotch, the heavy weight of his erect cock was on his tongue, and Sherlock swallowed around it in delight, savouring the mild taste of it as John swore above him.

 _Can he come like this_ , _I wonder…_ It was no secret that most omegas needed anal penetration in order to reach orgasm, but John was already so different…

Sherlock tightened the suction of his mouth, and pulled off, pressing his lips together as John’s cock slipped wetly from his mouth, and letting it penetrate his mouth again, with enough resistance to make John grip his hair tight at the feeling.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock,” John rocked his hips, gently fucking Sherlock’s mouth, in no danger of choking him but the thought alone was doing both of them in. Sherlock held tight to John’s thighs, feeling the muscles move under his hands, trying not to gag as John’s cock rubbed over his tongue, pushed between his lips, the taste of pre-come already dripping down his throat.

Sherlock pulled away to swallow and gasp for air, wiping his chin as he looked up at John, who looked shaky yet aroused, his face flushed pink, arms tense.

John shook his head, as if trying to clear it, then pushed Sherlock down onto the bed. He made to fall with him, but caught himself on bed-frame, realising that landing on his front would be a bad idea.

Sherlock quickly took John by the hips, and held him tight as John clambered over him, sitting astride his hips. John leaned down to kiss him, and Sherlock sat up slightly, catching the kiss and taking it, trying to work his trousers down at the same time.

John took pity on him after a moment, and raised himself up on his knees so Sherlock could kick off his trousers and underwear.

There was a moment of embarrassment for both of them as Sherlock’s cock was freed from his trousers, and the difference between the two of them was starkly apparent.

John, settled back on Sherlock’s thighs, traced a finger over the thick and heavy length of Sherlock’s erection, the feel of his skin making the alpha tense, his cock twitching as John moved the skin over the achingly hard shaft, up to where the skin had pulled back to display a shine of rose, glistening and wanting.

“How the fuck are you still single?” John muttered, thumbing over the thin, sensitive strap of skin at Sherlock’s glans.

The alpha let out a breathy moan. “Never… never found…” Sherlock’s brain short-circuited as John rubbed a bead of welling pre-come from Sherlock’s tip over the rosy smooth flesh of his glans. More pre-come appeared in its place, and Sherlock wondered if he might be teased to death before…

Before what?

The thought was quickly erased as John wrapped two hands around Sherlock’s cock, and began to slowly work him, holding firmly and then loosely, changing his grip and his touch and his rhythm so much that Sherlock couldn’t get control. He really was about to be tormented to orgasm. Pleasure was building inside him, John’s ever-changing fast-then-slow motions meaning Sherlock didn’t know whether to hold off or even how to.

“John –” he gripped at the bedclothes. “John – I can’t –”

“Fuck…” John let go with one hand, and stroked the other up Sherlock’s full length. “Fuck, I just…” He looked desperately at the bed.

“Tell me what you want,” Sherlock pushed himself up to lean back on his elbows.

John looked at the bed again. “Just… shit, can you get…” John got off Sherlock, who moved to cover any awkwardness as John lay half on his side, half on his back, beckoning with a hand before Sherlock covered him, his inner alpha crowing in delight as getting to cover this omega. But the omega smelled of pregnancy, and that was wrong because Sherlock hadn’t knotted him. And _fuck_ how he wanted to. He could feel the heat-filled wave of pure lust igniting deep in his gut, making the knot at the base of his cock tingle with the urge to swell… his mouth filled with saliva, desperate to bite.

But then he met John’s eyes.

And Sherlock squashed that urge right down, where it belonged.

John was not his. He could never be his. Not in the way Sherlock’s blood was up for. John would lose his baby if Sherlock were to bite him. John would be devastated. No bond in the universe would ever make that better. Sherlock was not the most important thing here.

He never could be.

Even as his cock pushed against John’s, and the two of them moaned in unison – hard heat against hard heat – Sherlock knew this really would be just the once. A release of tension, that’s all it was. No strings. No relationship.

Neither of them could promise anything.

Sherlock thrust.

John shouted, grabbing Sherlock’s hips like his life depended on it. He thrust back, and it was Sherlock’s turn to moan, pre-come spilling from the tip of his cock. John thumbed it over Sherlock’s erection as he thrust again, the slick stuff acting like lubricant as they frotted together.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” John thrust again, his movement driven by need. Sherlock kissed his forehead – the only bit of him he could get to without moving their bodies apart, and continued rubbing his cock against John’s. He was aching with the need to get inside him.

“John…” Sherlock gripped at John’s thigh, trying to make his meaning clear. He felt light-headed from the urge to fuck into the man’s body. He had never felt it so deeply before, it was like a primal instinct telling him he had to penetrate this man. He _had_ to.

But John snatched a hold of his wrist.

 _No_.

Sherlock let out an alpha snarl of frustration, and fucked up against John harder, making the man push back, forcing Sherlock onto his back as John straddled him again, taking them both in hand.

Sherlock gaped, lust clouding his vision as John pumped them both in his hands, the angle meaning that it looked for a moment as though John had an alpha cock of his own, and _fuck_ if that didn’t somehow seem right and good, and Sherlock almost melted into the mattress from the sheer feeling of it all. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t reason. He jerked his hips up into John’s grip, his climax coming like a freight train.

“John – I’m – can’t –”

John rapidly moved his wrist, jacking Sherlock furiously as the alpha’s orgasm smashed into him. Come ran down John’s hand, splattered over Sherlock’s chest, as white-hot electricity crackled over his body.

“Oh god…” John adjusted his seat on Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock felt the wetness over his skin. John’s wetness. Even as John let go of Sherlock’s spent cock, the alpha longed to sink into that wetness. It was inbuilt. The feeling would go away, feelings always did, but right now…

John made to get up.

Sherlock put a hand to his leg. “Where are you going?”

John gestured at himself. His cock still looked painfully hard. “Covered in someone’s come, why’d you ask?”

“Yes, but you’ve not –”

“It’s fine.”

Sherlock frowned. “But...”

“Honestly, Sherlock, it’s not a big deal.” John grabbed a towel from his pile of clean laundry.

Sherlock sat up. “But I want…”

“Yeah, me too,” John shrugged. “I’d love to get off, but there you go.”

Sherlock stared. “You don’t want me to…” he glanced down.

“No.”

“Ah…” Sherlock thought. “I could –”

“Sherlock, I’m thirty-five, I know what works,” John sighed. “I had fun. Let’s leave it at that.” He wrapped the towel around his waist. It emphasised his baby bump, and it tented at his hard cock.

Sherlock could only nod.

“Thank you.” John went for the door. “And for…” he smiled. “Needed it.”

 _But you didn’t get it,_ Sherlock thought, as John went down the stairs. _You didn’t get it at all_. He looked down at himself, suddenly feeling as though he had made a mistake, somewhere.


	10. Chapter 10

John woke early the next morning. He rolled onto his back with a sigh, and waited for the weirdness to wash over him.

But it didn’t.

He opened his eyes, and blinked at the ceiling.

They’d had sex. Pretty much. As much as John wanted… no, not wanted… felt able to. He and his flatmate. John and Sherlock.

And it didn’t feel weird.

The baby stretched out their feet into John’s innards, and he groaned and half-rolled himself upright, watching his stomach move and settle as the thing inside made use of the space. He sat back against the headboard, and put a hand to his belly, feeling the little bumps and prods against his hand. He let his head fall back to rest on the wall. He felt the usual deep-body itch and unease he always had after a sexual encounter where he didn’t climax (and that was almost every time), as if he’d forgotten to do something important.

Shit, he’d wanted to do it, though.

Straddling Sherlock’s legs, pumping their cocks together, John had really wanted to rise up and take Sherlock’s cock inside him, feel that awful stretch, find his own peak of pleasure as he held the alpha down and rode him.

But he hadn’t. The disgust he felt about it was stronger than the desire. The last time that happened, he ended up like this.

He stroked his bump again, absent-mindedly.

Sherlock hadn’t bitten him. Hadn’t even made a move for John’s throat, though John had been ready to thump him one if he’d gotten carried away. Alphas did. They couldn’t control themselves, omegas made them lose a grip…

No.

John threw the covers back. No, that wasn’t true at all, was it? Alphas could control themselves, they just said they couldn’t so they could get what they wanted. Sherlock was proof of that. There were other men who were proof of that. Just a few – too many – who let the side down, and said omegas _made them_ do what they did, as if it was the alphas who had been…

John clamped a lid down on that thought. Whatever his own mind, there was the law to consider. Omegas could not, legally, be raped, except in exceptional circumstances – such as their mate saying no if another alpha tried to get at them. In all other instances, it was either not reported, or not taken seriously. What omega would walk away from an alpha who wanted them? What omega would fight, and refuse, and have their arms torn to shreds as they defended themselves from a bite and a bond they had not asked for, and did not want?

The worst kind, that’s what.

And no matter how much of a relief and a thrill last night had been, that was where it would stop. John didn’t want to burden Sherlock with himself, and Sherlock – who had made no attempt to sleep with him afterwards – obviously had no desire to take it further. No alpha was going to refuse an omega who threw themselves at him, even if he was pregnant. John had probably been a disappointment, anyway, refusing to be penetrated.

Still. It wouldn’t happen again.

John pulled his dressing gown on, and took himself downstairs, for a shower.

 

*

 

John was making breakfast when Sherlock emerged from his own room.

“Oh… good morning,” Sherlock said, testing the air for apparent unpleasantness.

“Morning,” John said, hopefully in the same voice as ever. Sherlock looked wonderfully dishevelled this morning, and John could see red patches on his collar-bones. “Do you want a tea, or are you showering?”

“Shower, first…” Sherlock paused. “You’re not at work, today?”

“No.”

“…I don’t suppose you’ve thought any more about what to do about Lestrade?”

“Not really.” John clicked the kettle on. “Didn’t have a lot of time for thinking, last night.”

Sherlock made a face that clearly said _yes, alright, that’s fair_.

John smiled. “I’ll try and get in touch with him today. I… can’t see it ending well, though.”

“Then both of us are out of a job,” Sherlock shrugged. “I meant what I said last night.”

 _Which part?_ John wondered, as Sherlock vanished into the bathroom. _The past where you said you’d stop working with Greg, or the part where you agreed with me saying this isn’t going anywhere..? Or both?_

The kettle had just boiled when the doorbell rang.

John cursed under his breath – they rarely got people coming to the flat, and he wasn’t exactly in the mood for dealing with people who wanted to talk to Sherlock about his website. He clumped down the stairs, and answered the door –

\- and found Greg Lestrade standing on the doorstep, holding a bunch of flowers.

“Greg?” John blinked.

“Yeah…” Greg looked embarrassedly at the flowers. “I… wanted to apologise. For being an arse, last night.”

John had to smile. “Right. You coming in?”

“Sure…” Greg came in, and John closed the door after him. “Is Sherlock in?”

“Doing his morning ablutions, as far as I know. You can go up.” He followed the detective inspector up to the lounge.

“Um…” Greg looked around the messy flat, and gave the flowers a bit of a wave.

“I’ll… do something with those…” John took them, and after a quick search of the kitchen, put them in a large measuring beaker with some water. “Tea?”

“Please,” Greg leaned on the breakfast bar. “Sorry, should have know Sherlock wouldn’t have a vase.”

“No, they’re…” John paused as he got another cup down. “Thank you,” he decided on. He poured hot water over the teabags, and then turned around. His t-shirt didn’t leave a lot to the imagination, as it was intended for men who weren’t pregnant, and he was barefoot and in lounging trousers… Greg didn’t seem to know where to look. “So… yesterday?” John prompted.

“Right, yeah.” Greg scratched the back of his head. “I acted like a twat. Again. And… it all makes sense now, why you fell out with me before, and… I should have guessed.”

“No one else did,” John said. “Apart from Molly.”

“Molly knows?”

“She’s got an advantage, though,” John said, thinking of the mousy little omega.

Greg nodded. “When did Sherlock find out?”

John rolled his eyes. “About two minutes after we first met. He didn’t say anything, though. He kept quiet until…”

_…Sherlock was pressing him against the wall, and kissing him deeply, and oh_ _god_ _that bodily contact – the sensation of crushing a lover against a surface – made Sherlock moan directly into John’s mouth. Sherlock could cover John completely, the difference in their heights was enough, and his inner alpha crowed in delight as the feeling. They kissed fiercely, sloppily, without any sort of co-ordination, both of them trying to find a rhythm, and neither of them quite getting there. John opened his mouth as Sherlock licked over his lower lip, tasting the sweat of their run. John was clutching hard at Sherlock’s back…_

“…it just sort of came out,” John finished. “He didn’t know I was… pregnant, though.”

_Sherlock turned to look at him. “You’re… you’re going to have a – a baby, and on your own, that’s…” he shook his head. “What are you thinking?”_

Greg hummed, as John pushed his tea towards him. “He must have been ok with it, though? The whole… thing?”  
  
John took a seat at the breakfast bar.  “It’s hard, ok?” He could still hear water running in the bathroom. “People think we’re a couple all the time. Even right at the start. And they’re going to keep thinking it. And I think… I keep thinking that if it bothered him, he’d say something. He’s not exactly known to mince his words, is he.”  
  
“That’s true,” Greg smiled.  
  
“Well… he hasn’t. We’re not a couple, we don’t act like one…” John ignored the memory of the night before, “…but I’m not going to look any better, and it’s like… he either is completely fine with people thinking it’s his, or he…”  
  
“Wants it to be?” Greg suggested.  
  
John shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the case. He’s said as much. That he couldn’t take on another alpha’s child.”  
  
Greg sipped his tea. “Seems to me that that’s an obstacle he could get over. Yeah, it seems like a huge deal, at first. A fallen – sorry, sorry, a single parent,” he looked apologetically at John, “but one who is obviously a nice man, clever, and you’re their friend… I don’t know if it’s such a big leap to think maybe… you could get over it.”  
John shrugged. “I don’t know. It would never be yours, though. Sure, at a distance, people might be fooled, but as soon as the wind changed… scents can only change so much.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I wouldn’t care about that. It’d depend how much I wanted to make things work with you.”

John looked up.

Greg blushed. “I didn’t mean…yeah.”

John glanced at the flowers, and his slow brain clunked into place what was happening. “Oh.”

“I am actually here to talk to you about your job,” Greg said quickly, pulling some papers out of his bag. “There are some options we can go down, without causing a fuss. And I think Sherlock would –”

“Would what?” Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, clad only in a towel.

John covered his eyes.

“Christ, Sherlock, put some fucking clothes on. I’m talking to John about work.”

“If you sack John, you have sacked me as well,” Sherlock said, hoiking his towel up a bit. “I shan’t work with you, Lestrade, I mean it –”

“I’m not sacking him!”

John lowered his hand.

“Oh.” Sherlock almost looked disappointed, as if he’d rehearsed the argument and now wouldn’t get to do it for real. “Really?”

“Did you want me to? I was just saying to John I think we can sort something out for him. That’s why I’m here.”

“I see.” Sherlock’s pale blue eyes flicked towards the beaker of flowers, and then back again. “Well. Don’t mind me.” He closed the bathroom door again.

John felt a throb of guilt.

“Anyway,” Greg didn’t seem to notice, “I think we can keep you on, because basically we can’t sack anyone who’s pregnant. However,” he raised a finger, “I need to take you off service at the station.”

“Why?”

“Health and safety. What you choose to do on consulting cases with Sherlock is your own business, and we’ll keep paying you for it, but we can’t have you dealing with drunks and violent alphas in your condition.”

John folded his arms. “So, what am I meant to do?”

“You’ll be going on research leave,” Greg handed him a folder. “Working with a private detective. And then, parental leave.”

“Not maternity leave?”

“Same thing, in the police service. One year, paid, and then…” he closed the paper file, “you come back and do your old job again. If you want it.”

John stared at the papers. “You’re serious? All of this?”

“It was either that or get HR involved. This way you’re safe, you’ve got a wage, and no one will ask you questions. What do you think?”

“I think you spent way too long doing this,” John said.

“Yeah, well, after you left last night, I realised I was being a bit of a prick. And you’re not just a colleague. I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe, in every sense.”

John smiled. His baby did a little wriggle of joy, and he put his hand there.

Greg’s eyes followed his hand. “So… how far on are you?”

“Twenty… four weeks?” John said. “No. Five, today. Fifteen to go.”

“So, just after Christmas?”

“Apparently.”

Greg was still looking at John’s hand. Then, he frowned. “What happened to your arms?”

“Oh,” John raised them, realising this was the first time Greg had seen him without long sleeves on. “That’s, er –”

“Bites,” Greg said. “Those are bites.”

“Yeah.”

“How…?”

John demonstrated defending his throat with his arms. “I couldn’t move away, you see?”

Greg looked as though someone had hit him with a brick. “Fuck…”

John lowered his arms, and shrugged.

“And that was how..?”

He nodded.

Greg sat back as much as he could. “But… I thought… you’d just left him?”

“We were never together,” John said. “It wasn’t planned, and we weren’t a couple. Just a freak thing. I was in hospital. Still in the army. Woke up, and… they didn’t know what I was. Sent me to a hospital full of alpha doctors, I didn’t have my drugs, and…” he stopped, and picked up his mug.

Greg’s face was pale. His eyes were staring into the middle distance, as if he was trying to work out some great puzzle. Because, of course. How could John have been refusing what was happening? Omegas couldn’t say no, could they?

John picked up his empty plate and mug, and carried them over to the sink.

“D’you want to get something to eat?” Greg asked.

“What – now?” John asked.

“No. Later. We could go out, and… bit more private?” Greg nodded deliberately in the direction of Sherlock’s room.

John felt something sink, in his chest. Greg wanted to question him about what had happened. He didn’t really want to relive that. He hesitated.

“Nothing serious,” Greg said quickly. “Just… see where we end up?”

“Sure,” John nodded. A walk, he thought. A walk, and no doubt end up at the pub for a curry and a drink. He could cope with that. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

“Great,” Greg smiled. “I’ll… come pick you up? Seven?”

They said their goodbyes, and John showed Greg out (or at least to the top of the stairs), before going back to the kitchen and starting to make himself a second breakfast.

“He’s gone?” Sherlock appeared moments later.

“Yes, he’s got to hand in my new stuff to HR. Did you want toast?”

“I don’t know why he bothers coming over without a case.”

“He’s a friend, Sherlock, not just some… man who entertains you with murders.”

“And he’s not even very good at that.”

John turned, to see Sherlock touching one of the fleshy flowers with finger and thumb. He pinched it hard, and the pink petal bruised, and went dark. “I’m going out, tonight,” he said.

“I heard,” Sherlock looked at him, with an unreadable expression. “And I thought he’d be all day about it.”

“About what?”

Sherlock stared. “John, please. Flowers? A change of job? A night out?”

John frowned. “I think you’re reading too much into this.”

“Really.” Sherlock sat in his armchair and snapped the newspaper open, hiding behind it.

John stared at it, for a while, then took his crumpets upstairs. Whether it was jealousy, mis-reading, or teasing he didn’t know. But if someone wanted to show John they cared about him, in any way, he wasn’t going to say no.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock stayed hidden behind his newspaper, and then his laptop screen, for the rest of the day. He felt unusually irritated, and suspected he knew why. Lestrade’s interest in John, of course. And it was so insulting. The man couldn’t catch a cold, never mind solve a half-decent case, and now here he was, only showing the slightest bit of interest in John now he was smelling more strongly of omega, and his… body was changing. John should be annoyed, too. Angry and insulted, even.

But he wasn’t! It was completely maddening. John was doing chores around the flat as though he wasn’t bothered at all. Either he was oblivious (and this could be the case, John wasn’t the sharpest knife in the draw, even if he was a useful implement), or he genuinely didn’t care that only _now_ was his colleague showing an – an interest in him.

Sherlock deleted a bunch of old emails in a huff. This whole situation reminded him of when he was at school, and came into maturity as an alpha. People who had teased him suddenly became either respectful or wary. Others, like squeaky little Brian Patterson, started tailing him around in the hopes of… what? A bite? A bond? Sherlock couldn’t stand it. He was the same person he’d been before, and now he was treated differently...

He looked up, realising it had gotten a bit dark.

“John?” he asked, softly.

There was no reply, but he heard the wardrobe door close upstairs, in John’s room. He hadn’t left yet, then.

Sherlock closed his laptop without bothering to shut it down properly. Perhaps he was being unreasonable. Lestrade might have been sexually attracted to John before he knew he was an omega, and had been afraid of upsetting their relationship. Or else he thought Sherlock was claiming John…

_…fuck_ _how he wanted to. He could feel the heat-filled wave of pure lust igniting deep in his gut, making the knot at the base of his cock tingle with the urge to swell… his mouth filled with saliva, desperate to bite._

_But then he met John’s eyes…_

Sherlock almost blushed at the memory of how badly he had wanted to plough into John’s body, slake his lust and come deep inside him. It had felt like the want of another man, as though Sherlock wasn’t in control of it.

Sherlock had had sex with omegas before.

But never one in heat. Because that had only one outcome, and Sherlock was keen to avoid that. Had been keen to avoid that…

It had just been sex, he told himself, moving to his armchair. Pure relief. For him, at least. John hadn’t actually orgasmed… that still rankled. Plenty of people had intercourse without having a relationship. And John had made it clear he didn’t want a relationship.

No, Sherlock frowned. He didn’t want a relationship unless the alpha wanted his baby, as well.

The baby. That was a complication. Surely Lestrade wouldn’t be able to overlook it. Another alpha’s offspring… he would be with it every moment, knowing it wasn’t his, knowing it was a bastard, unwanted by both alpha and omega, unplanned and its mother unbonded… though at least if it had a step-father it wouldn’t have too much social shame to deal with. And neither would John. He would be seen as making up for his past mistakes, submitting like he should, raising his child in the best environment possible…

Sherlock looked miserably around the flat. This was no place for a baby. Perhaps John was being pragmatic about all this.

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and John came into the lounge, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. “Come out of your sulk, have you?” he asked.

“I wasn’t sulking.”

“Glad to hear it. Have you seen my keys?” John wandered into the kitchen. He was wearing his ordinary jeans, and a jumper. The jumper had a hole on the hem. These weren’t John’s date clothes, were they?

John grabbed his keys off the side, and put them into his pocket. In his baggy knitwear he looked less pregnant, and Sherlock wondered if it was deliberate. “What’re your plans for the evening?”

“Well, since you’re keeping Lestrade to yourself, I shall just have to make my own entertainment, won’t I?”

“So long as it doesn’t involve guns, I don’t care what you get up to,” John shrugged. “Don’t worry, your work wife will be safe with me.”

“Work wife?” Sherlock frowned.

John shook his head. “Look. I’m not going to embarrass you. Especially after last night.” A slight blush stained his cheeks. “But you’ve been acting off all day, and…” John sighed. “He’s not exactly conventional either, you know?”

“What on _Earth_ are you talking about?” Sherlock asked.

“If you want something to happen, you should just say so,” John said.

Sherlock’s brain struggled to keep up. “You mean… with Lestrade.”

“Sure.” John shrugged. “I could sort of mention it, if you wanted?”

“But… you’re going out with him.”

“Yeah, but we can’t talk about work all night.”

“He isn’t asking you out to talk about work, you imbecile,” Sherlock stood. “Honestly, have the hormones finally reached your brain? Lestrade is asking you out with romantic and sexual intentions, do you understand?”

John stepped back. And then forward again, overriding his omega instinct to back off. “I don’t think that’s the case.”

“John – he brought you flowers!”

“Everyone brings omegas flowers!” John said hotly, his blush igniting. He glanced at the floor, clearly uncomfortable with lumping himself in with that gender group. “It was an apology. He’s sorting things with work, and he saw my – my arms, and he wants a chat. He’s just a friend. That’s all there is to it.”

“And if he offers?” Sherlock countered.

“What?”

“If he offers to be your mate? Your child’s step-father? What would you say?”

The question looked to have smacked John like a ton of bricks. He gaped, and glanced around the room as if looking for an exit. “That’s – that’s not going to happen, though, is it? No one wants to be stuck with this.” He put a hand to his belly. And glared at Sherlock like an accusation.

And it hurt. Sherlock felt as if he was being strangled. He wished so badly he could somehow vanish the thing inside John, make it not there, make their kisses and their sex last night the prelude to something else, but he couldn’t. Every time he replayed last night in his head, he saw John’s shirt straining over the bump. He felt it pressed against his own flat stomach. And he didn’t mind that it existed. He didn’t mind it was John’s.

But how could he ever try and make it his, as well?

John stepped around Sherlock, and picked up his jacket. “I don’t know whether you’re right about Greg or not, but either way it’s none of your business, is it?” He looked at the alpha. “You’re a good flatmate, Sherlock. I like working with you, and yeah, you’re a – a good friend. But we both know last night was a mistake. We’re not in the same place. Mentally. Emotionally, whatever. And I don’t think it’s just with me. You’re as old as you are, and you’re single. You’ve got people falling over themselves for you, but you just…” John gestured with a hand at Sherlock, just stood there. “What are you waiting for?”

“The work,” Sherlock snapped, defensive. “The only thing that matters. I’m – I’m bonded to my work. That’s all there is to it.”

John smiled, sadly.

The doorbell rang.

“Well,” John said, “I hope your work makes you happy, Sherlock. Don’t wait up.”

 

*

 

Lestrade was wearing a suit. Not with a tie, but a suit nonetheless. He didn’t seem bothered by John’s casual clothes, but John’s heart sank immediately. Sherlock had been right. Why was he always right?

“I booked a Moroccan place that someone recommended,” Greg said, as their cab drove them through the city. “I hope that’s ok?”

“I’m good with anywhere,” John said.

Greg beamed.

John wished he could sink into the leather and disappear. But then… why should he? Sudden annoyance at Sherlock’s words rose up in him like fire, and he decided that he’d see precisely where this was going before he decided to be miserable. There was no need to be hasty, after all. Greg earned a good wage, he was kind, and handsome, no kids of his own, and old enough not to care about what people thought...

John’s baby rolled over, and John put a hand to his bump.

Greg’s eyes flicked down. “…moving?”

“All the time,” John sighed. “Especially when I’m trying to sleep. That’s when it wakes up and starts partying.” He rubbed what felt like a foot trying to dig into his ribs.

Greg raised a tentative hand. “Can… can I..?”

John fought off a wince. He didn’t let anyone touch his bump. “Um.”

“It’s ok,” Greg dropped his hand. “Sorry.”

John shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s… anyone.” He sighed. “It’s like, if no one touches it, then maybe it isn’t actually there? I don’t even… I try not to think about it.”

“You really don’t like it, do you?” Greg said softly.

“No,” John shook his head. “Not at all.”

The cab pulled up outside the restaurant. Greg paid before John could stop him, and they were inside and seated before he had time to even see the name of the place. But it was warm inside, and smelled divine, and it was busy. John relaxed a little as he picked up the menu.

“Sherlock thinks we’re on a date,” he said, looking right at Greg as he said it.

Greg nearly dropped his glass. “Oh. Oh, I. I didn’t make that… clear?”

John forced a smile. “I think it was me being stupid, actually,” he said. “But… I don’t mind.”

“Mind?”

“It’s nice,” John clarified. “This is nice.”

Greg poured John some water.

“But why now?” John asked. “I mean… it’s because you found out about… isn’t it?”

Greg put the bottle down. “Sort of,” he said slowly. “It’s hard to explain.”

John stayed quiet.

“You’ve sort of grown on me, I suppose,” Greg grinned. “But even when I thought you were a… I assumed you and Sherlock were… I mean, no offence, but you stank of him this morning.”

John shrugged, the picture of innocence. “We share a flat, it’s going to happen.”

“True. But I always assumed you and he were… going to happen, if not already happening. He doesn’t like omegas, but I thought you were a beta, and then finding out the truth…” Greg sipped from his glass. “He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, he is,” John said, darkly. “Maybe I am, too, though.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “You mean, you want something to happen?”

“I thought I did,” John said. “But… I think getting asked out here has been a bit of a wake-up call. No one’s going to want to have to raise someone else’s baby. And…”

Greg reached across the table, and put a hand on John’s wrist. “Not everyone is like that.”

John looked at him. “Greg…”

“I’m not saying I’d be amazing,” he said. “Or even good. But I’d be ok with it. I’d… You’d never hear me complaining, ok? I’d know what I’d be getting into. I’d get over it.”

And, just like that, the budding interest John had been allowing himself to develop was burned neatly to the ground. “You’d get over it,” he repeated.

“I’d do my best,” Greg said. “And… it would be yours, and I’d be glad to know it.”

John forced a smile. “I know you would.”

Greg could read his face, and his own smile fell. “What did I say?”

“It’s nothing,” John said, picking his menu back up. “What’d good here, do you know?”

 

*

 

Sherlock heard John come home at ten.

Early enough.

From his bedroom, he listened to John take off his coat and shoes, and go into the kitchen. Heard him open the fridge and sigh in annoyance, go to the cupboard and take out a glass, run the tap so the water was cold, fill the glass, silence as he drank.

The date hadn’t gone well.

Sherlock couldn’t help feeling pleased.

There was the sound of the washing machine door opening, and then soft fabric noises as clothes were loaded into it. A click-click-click of the knob, and the click of the drawer. A soft ‘beep’ as the timer was set for the load to start in the morning.

John was so organised, so domestic. He pretended not to be, but he was.

Then, the fridge door again, and a heavy glass noise as it clunked onto the counter.

Sherlock was up off his bed in an instant, opening his door as John screwed the top back on the bottle of white wine.

John raised his eyebrows. “What.”

“You shouldn’t.” Sherlock eyed the glass of yellowy liquid.

John put the bottle, a previously unopened gift from a client, back in the fridge. “One small glass, Sherlock. I’m not necking a bottle of vodka.” He shut the fridge door, and picked the glass up, walking over to the sofa with it.

Sherlock tailed after him. “Went well then, did it? Your not-a-date?”

“Oh, shut up,” John muttered. He sipped the wine in his glass, and pulled a face. “Tastes like vinegar.”

“Then, you won’t be wanting any more,” Sherlock lunged for the glass.

John held it out of reach. “Sherlock – fuck off – I’ll crack this over your head, I mean it –”

“You are not supposed to be drinking.”

“And you’re not supposed to give a single shit!” John spat.

They glared at each other.

John took a deliberate swig of his drink, and swallowed it.

Sherlock shook his head. “Who do you think you’re hurting, here?”

“Why do you care? You shouldn’t care. You say you don’t, and yet here you are.”

“I care about –” Sherlock stopped, and flailed, “about – about –”

John scoffed, and put his glass down. “Since you asked, the date was a bust. And yeah, it was a date.” His face fell.

Sherlock’s annoyance evaporated. “What happened?”

John shook his head. “He was… perfectly understanding. And that’s it. Pretty much said he wasn’t interested until my scent started coming back. So. More fool me, I guess.”

Sherlock wanted to crow that he knew it _he knew it_ , but he fought the urge down. “I see. I hope that won’t damage your professional relationship?”

“No, it won’t.”

“Good. Then, we can continue to work with him.”

“Apparently.” John picked his wine back up, and sipped it. “Maybe Mycroft was right.”

“Mycroft?”

“He came to see me. With some… information. About couples looking to adopt.”

“You didn’t tell me this.”

“No.” John held the glass up to his eye, and squinted through it. “No, I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Why wouldn’t I be interested?”

“Ok, maybe you would. Maybe you’d be happy I’d be back on the cases faster. No pram to push about. No… whatever those rucksacks you put babies into. None of that shit.” John sighed. “No complications.”

Sherlock couldn’t make sense of what his brain was doing. On the one hand he was furious Mycroft had dared to interfere in John’s life. On the other, he couldn’t believe John was considering this. “But it’s your baby,” he said, sounding utterly stupid.

John shrugged.

“I mean… it’s yours. Why would you… give it away?”

“Because someone else would be a better family for it than just me?”

Something about that stung Sherlock, but he didn’t know precisely why. “You will be an excellent parent.”

“Yeah, maybe,” John drained his glass. “Maybe one day I will be. On my own terms, with a partner I’ve chosen, not with a stranger who raped me. And don’t start on the whole _omegas can’t be raped_ bullshit because I know what happened to me. I said no, he did it. End of. But maybe I could be a mum one day, with a loving household, and someone who cares about me and the baby we decide to have. Maybe. But that’s not where I am, is it? I’m not in… I don’t have…” he put his face in his hands.

Sherlock moved quickly, and put his arms around John. The omega was trembling, holding back tears.

John looked up quickly, eyes shining but no tears. Not yet. He didn’t hold Sherlock back. “What are you doing?” He asked. He sounded very tired.

“You’re upset,” Sherlock said. He leaned back.

“And you want to make it all better?” John laughed bitterly.

“I don’t know what I want.”

John frowned. “The fuck do you mean?”

“I mean… I want you to stop being sad,” Sherlock said. “And if you think you’ve got no one around you… you have. You have so many friends. You’re so… loved, John.”

John stared at him. It felt as though several days passed. And then he said: “Maybe.”

Their eyes locked.

Sherlock’s arms were still around John, both of them squashed onto the sofa.

John bit his lip. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Let you… be here,” John didn’t try to push Sherlock’s arms away, but moved inside the embrace. “It’s not what either of us want.”

_Isn’t it?_

Sherlock loosened his grip. “I suppose not.”

John nodded. “Should have just kept it in my pants last night,” he said, jokingly.

“No,” Sherlock said quickly, “no, it was –”

“Just a thing.” John sat back, and Sherlock had to let go. “I can’t ask more of you than that. You’ve made it clear where you stand.”

_But…_

Sherlock nodded. “What can I do?”

John gave a tiny smile. “Be a good friend, I guess. And help me off this sofa. I’m going to bed.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a non-graphic assault, some violence.

Twenty-Seven weeks, and counting.

John pushed the empty chest of drawers into the corner, and checked he had just enough room to open them before each drawer hit the wardrobe. It was a squash, but he’d measured up and it turned out that cots were bigger than he’d thought. He’d looked at Moses Baskets, but the guidance said the baby couldn’t stay it one for long, so he decided not to bother. He could put the cot beside his own bed with one of the sides down.

He stood back from the re-arrangement of the furniture, and caught his breath. Although the temperature outside had started dropping, John couldn’t seem to cool down, lately. He was topless as soon as he got into his bedroom, and didn’t even take more than a jacket when he went out. Still, it would save him the expense of buying a winter maternity coat.

John pulled his t-shirt back on, and stuffed the piece of paper with the room’s measurements on into his pocket before going downstairs.

Sherlock was screwed up on the sofa in one of his moods. He had been snappish and irritable for a few days.

_“Maybe you’re in rut,” John suggested the previous night, over pasta._

_Sherlock had gone as red as a tomato. “I don’t – that’ – how –”_

_“Well, you’re being a diva,” John pointed out. “You’re in a foul temper, and… when was the last time you –”_

_“I am not discussing this with you.”_

_John shrugged, and picked up some garlic bread. “Fine, you just sit there and suffer. Makes no difference to me.” He bit into the bread, and chewed._

_Sherlock stirred his pasta around his plate. “What would be your professional advice?” he asked, eventually._

_“What?”_

_“You heard me.”_

_John swallowed. “Well, my professional advice would be to go and get your hormones rebalanced, and I’m sure we don’t need to beat around the bush to know what that means.” He picked up his fork. “But you don’t do that, do you?”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So, what is your unprofessional advice?”_

_John smiled. “Eat something, maybe drink some wine, have a smoke, and stop in for a day or two.”_

_“That’s what I usually do.”_

_John’s smile warped into a frown. “Usually? What do you… how many have you had? I thought…” he shook his head. Alpha men usually had one rut when they hit maturity, and then after that, only when they had gone for a certain period of time without knotting an omega. It was unusual for a man to have more than a handful in his lifetime._

_Sherlock shrugged. “Two or three a year. Why?”_

_John knew he was staring, but his medical brain was whirring away faster than he could process it. “And… you’re ok with that?” he managed._

_“It’s inconvenient, yes, but…” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What?”_

_“You honestly have several ruts a year?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“How?” John pushed his plate away. “I mean… that’s means you’ve nev…” he stopped at the look on Sherlock’s face. “Oh.”_

_“Oh.” Sherlock looked rather nonplussed. “You’re surprised.”_

_“I… As a doctor, I have to say it’s highly unusual,” John conceded. “No… ill-effects? They don’t get worse over time?”_

_“If anything, less so,” Sherlock said. “I assumed it was to do with my age.”_

_“Maybe, maybe…” John nodded. “Huh. Well. Learn something new every day…”_

Right now, Sherlock was hunched on the sofa, doing something on his phone, still wearing the same pyjamas and dressing gown as yesterday. John walked past him, inhaling and registering that Sherlock absolutely stank of alpha. It wasn’t an unwashed smell, it was just very intense, as though Sherlock’s very presence was somehow concentrated.

John’s nose normally identified Sherlock’s scent as a familiar unbonded alpha, and a potential mate. He was used to that, and it was easy to almost ignore. But right now the scent was so strong it bypassed attractive and barrelled straight into Possible Threat.

John glanced at the alpha as he made his breakfast. If Sherlock had any mind to come over and start anything, John would be forced to defend himself. What did he have? His fists, and the contents of the kitchen. Sherlock had his natural alpha strength, and enough adrenaline to kill a rhinoceros. Sherlock would win. John could probably stab an alpha in rut and the man wouldn’t realise until he was dead.

But Sherlock showed no sign of moving. He stayed where he was, flinching occasionally, and snarling at something he was reading. It wasn’t typical rut behaviour, but since when had Sherlock been typical about anything?

The baby inside John started squirming about as its mother’s breakfast got into their shared bloodstream. He looked down and watched his stomach change shape. So gross. He finished his juice, and put the dishes in the sink.

“I’m going out,” he said, loudly.

Sherlock made a ‘mm’ sound.

“Do you need anything?”

Sherlock shifted on the sofa. “No.”

 _You need to get your leg over_ , John thought to himself. _A lifetime without knotting an omega, and look where you are. Having a rut with an omega in the same room and you’re just lying there. What’s the matter with you?_

 _Be grateful,_ a different voice of thought came to him. _If he wasn’t the way he is, you could be face-down on the floorboards getting your throat ripped out. And you’re one to talk. You’ve only been knotted once, and that was-_ John slammed the lid down on that thought. Maybe Sherlock’s age did have something to do with it. Young alphas in rut were a danger. Sherlock just looked like he was in a bad mood.

John locked the front door behind him when he went out. The fresh air was very fresh, and he felt his nose sting despite feeling warm all over. He hitched up his jeans, and started the walk towards the tube. He was going to need courage, for this.

 

*

 

“And this one converts into a toddler bed,” the saleswoman beamed at him. “You can even use the same mattress.”

“That’s great,” John said, exhausted. He’d been in the shop for twenty minutes and felt as if he had aged several decades. “It’s a bit big, though, I really need something small.”

“It’s a real money-saver in the long term!”

“I get that, but right now this is the space I have,” John brandished his scrap of paper at her. “I’ll take that one,” he pointed at the smallest cot in the shop. “Do you deliver?”

They did. For the same amount of money as the cot cost. John was very aware of his blood pressure by that point, and decided to pay for it and worry about the expense later. He added a mattress and a set of sheets to the total.

Then, picked up a basket, and went over to the clothes.

He stood, staring at the rails and rows of tiny outfits like a man transfixed. There was a pink section, a white section, and a blue section. Until a child presented a secondary gender, they were defined by their sex, and society went to town with it. Boys were treated differently from girls, even if they might end up being the same gender once they hit puberty. It was completely mad.

John had elected not to find out his baby’s sex. He wondered idly what would happen if he had a girl, and dressed her in blue. People would assume she was a boy, that’s what. He rolled his eyes, and picked up a multipack of white vests, some grey sleepsuits, a tiny hat, some scratch mitts, a snowsuit…

By the time he looked back down at his basket it was almost overflowing. And he didn’t even have any bath stuff, or nappies, or muslin cloths, or –

John put the basket down on the floor, and walked out of the shop. He did it without thinking, as if his brain was on auto-pilot. He left the baby store and walked into the coffee shop next door, ordering a hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows and sitting in a comfy chair before he allowed himself to start thinking again.

He would have to go back to the shop, he knew. He needed all that stuff. No – the baby needed it. It needed clothes, and nappies, and a little bath. It needed blankets and bottles. It couldn’t go out and get it itself. It would be entirely helpless.

He looked around the coffee shop. There weren’t many couples in, as it was midday on a weekday, but there were a few pairs of mothers together, their prams blocking the aisles – fuck, John needed one of those, as well – as they balanced their babies on their knees, or else fastened them to their breasts to keep them quiet. The thought made John’s skin crawl. He was most definitely going to bottle-feed. He couldn’t imagine using his chest like that, even if his nipples were already swollen and darkening, and sometimes they seemed a little damp.

One of the mothers close to John put his baby into a high chair, and started fussing looking for something in his bag.

The baby glared at John. He had no idea how old it was, or what sex, but it had mastered giving an unnerving stare, for sure. John gave it a small smile. The baby blinked, then beamed, showing two teeth. It kicked its legs and made a sort of ‘hnnnnnggh’ sound that made its mother look up in alarm, then relax.

“Oh, he likes you,” the omega smiled at John.

“H…yeah,” John gave the baby a small wave, and he banged his palms on the tray in front of him in response.

“Wave, William, you know how to wave,” the baby’s mother demonstrated. “Such a bossy-boots, aren’t you?” He looked back at John. “When’re you due?”

“January,” John said, watching as the omega managed to somehow simultaneously undo a jar of baby food, take out a spoon, and put a bib around the baby’s neck with one hand.

“Enjoy it, when it comes,” the man rolled his eyes as he spooned up something smooth. “They’re lovely when they’re just born. And then this happens. And he’s starting to walk. Can’t take my eyes off him for one minute.” He looked back at John, and his eyes flicked over John’s neck. His friendly face fell.

John suddenly wished he’d worn a scarf. “Er…”

“It’s none of my business,” the omega sniffed. “But this is supposed to be a family place.”

“I’ll have a family in a few weeks,” John hissed, lowering his voice.

“Oh. You’re engaged?”

“No,” John felt himself blush, “but me and my baby will be a family. Just a small one.”

The omega made a noise that was more or less a scoff. “I see.” He looked back at his baby, and fed him some more food.

It was clear that the conversation was over.

John got his phone out and messed about on it as he drank his hot drink. He could hear a few whispers around him, and tried to ignore them as he organised his work emails and deleted a few old photos.

_…he’s pregnant?... jump to conclusions, but… Fallen Omegas, back in my day… all hushed up… absolutely brazen… out in public… Fallen Omega… disgraceful…_

He left the café with as much dignity as he could muster, and leaned against the wall outside. He needed the loos, but wasn’t going to walk back in there. He’d go across the road to the library, first. And then back to the baby shop. Christ, this was meant to be a quick visit, and now it was turning into…

“You alright there, love?” a drawling voice made John look up.

A man, most likely an alpha, though it was difficult to tell with the thick smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him, was standing close by. He was thin, and mean-looking.

“Fine, thanks,” John pushed himself off the wall.

“Where you going? On your own?”

“No,” John said, choosing to answer the second question. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Bullshit.” The man grinned. “Saw you come bursting out that coffee shop like your arse was on fire.” He sniffed the air. “You’re all alone, sweetheart.”

“So are you,” John pointed out.

“No, baby. No quite.” His gaze slid from John and John knew, without turning around, that at least one, possibly two other men had quietly approached from the other direction. His heart sank. One man, he could probably still handle, even in his condition. Two would be unlikely. Three was out of the question.

He slowly raised his hands, showing they were empty. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Neither do we, sweetheart. Just do as we tell you, and there’ll be no trouble at all. You know what’s good for you, don’t you?”

A hand clamped down on John’s shoulder, and he flinched, pushing the hand away. “Don’t touch me.” He could see there were three men in total, all alphas by the look and smell of them, all of them tall and ready to grab John if he tried to make a run for it.

“Where’d you wanna do this?” one asked the apparent leader.

“Take him down the alley. Easy to keep watch.”

The hands grabbed John by the arms again. John wrenched himself free, and punched hard at the alpha who had him. John’s fist connected with the man’s jaw, and he staggered backwards, hand clamped to it.

“Fuck you!”

“Fucking whore!” the third man made to thump John back, but John dodged it neatly and stamped hard on the alpha’s ankle before punching him in the nose. There was a sick sort of _crack_ under his knuckles, and a _pop_ in John’s hand that promised him pain to come. But the alpha’s face was covered in blood, and that meant victory, except the first one was coming back, and he was going to punch John in the stomach…

John covered himself with his arms. It was the only defence he had as a hammer-hard strike made contact with him. The pain exploded on his arm, but there was no way he could raise them now to fight back. They had him vulnerable.

The alphas didn’t go in for style. They slapped and pushed John, open-handed and rough, down into the alleyway between the shop buildings. John kept his arms tight and rigid over his belly, trying to kick and bite as best he could, but without using his hands he was no real threat to them.

“Please,” he tried begging instead, his omega instincts screaming at him. “Please, don’t – please – I –”

“Need to be taught a thing or two, I reckon,” an alpha breathed rotten breath over his face. “Already let someone stick it in you, haven’t you? What happened to him? Did he realise what a whore you are? Or were you too loose for him, being so old?”

They all laughed.

John’s stomach tightened. He could feel the baby flipping about, high on adrenaline. “Please don’t,” he tried again as they tried to shove him against a wall. He raised his hands to catch himself, skinning his palms open on the brick. “I’ve got – I’ve got a boyfriend at home,” he lied, desperately, “he’ll be waiting for me, please, fuck, don’t –” he sobbed as hands reached around for his belt buckle.

“He said _no_ ,” a sharp voice came from behind them.

“Fuck off, pal,” one of the alphas turned to snarl. “This one’s ours.”

“I don’t think he’s anyone’s.” The alley made the voice echoey and deep, and John shuddered. “Why don’t you back off now, whilst you’re still standing, eh?”

The hand on John’s belt moved away. “You don’t want this one. He’s a Fallen Omega. Already up the duff with someone’s kid. Not mated or anything. Stinks of an alpha who isn’t his mate. Needs teaching a thing or two, don’t you reckon?”

“No, I don’t _reckon_ ,” the voice was closer, now. “Last chance. Fuck off.”

“Fucksake.” John was released, but the alphas didn’t go far. They turned as a group to the single figure in the alleyway.

John could barely turn his head. There was blackness eating at the edge of his vision. He only heard the fight that followed – several thumps like someone dropping a bat onto a piece of meat, some yelling, and then, a gentle hand on his shoulder, and a voice saying:

“John?”

John inhaled, as if he’d just remembered how, and his brain fizzed to catch up with the situation. He looked up at the concerned face. “…what?”

“Luck of the draw,” Greg smiled. “I was in a patrol car off the high-street. Someone came running to say they’d seen three alphas approach an omega on his own. I didn’t know it was you until…”

John suddenly realised his jeans were soaked through. He must have lost control of his bladder at some point. “Oh, shit…” he tried to stand.

Greg helped him up. He had dirt on his face, and his knuckles were bleeding. “I’ve got you…”

“I’m so sorry,” John said in a rush. “I… should’ve just walked away, or…”

“You can never know when there’s twats about,” Greg said. He looked John over. “Erm…” He took off his jacket and held it out. “Tie it round your waist. I’ll take you home in the car.”

 

*

 

Sherlock answered the door to a dirty and bloody Lestrade, and a John who was white as a sheet and stinking of alpha anger and his own piss. It took Sherlock a second to think to step back and let them both in. “What the hell…?”

“Get a shower going for John,” Lestrade ordered him. “Now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was tempted to argue – John knew how the bathroom facilities worked, after all, but one look at the omega’s face changed his mind. John looked ashen, in shock… His jacket was torn at the shoulder, he had grubby fingerprints on his collar and shirt, his arms were hurting, he was holding them awkwardly, and he had skinned his palms, though hadn’t fallen down – he’d been bracing himself.

John had been attacked.

“Who did this?” Sherlock stepped right into John’s space, and made to take his arms.

The effect was instantaneous.

John slapped him on the ear as Lestrade let out a snarl and shoved Sherlock backwards.

All three of them looked at each other in horror immediately afterward.

John took a deep breath. “I can sort my own shower,” he said, with dignity. He untied Lestrade’s jacket from around his waist. “I’ll get this dry-cleaned, Greg.”

“It’s no trouble –”

“Greg, it’s covered in piss,” John said, with enough embarrassment for it to spread. He tucked it over his arm. “Excuse me…”

Sherlock watched him go.

Lestrade flexed his hands. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a first aid kit, have you?”

Sherlock’s nose finally registered the blood. “Oh. Yes. Upstairs…”

Lestrade followed him. “You’re in rut.”

“You should be a detective.”

“Why are you still here? John’s –”

“Been attacked by alphas who were not in rut,” Sherlock snapped, pulling the kit out of the cupboard. “It’s all about self-control. Of which I have enough.”

Lestrade opened the box, and took out the antiseptic wipes. He unbuttoned his cuffs, and pushed his sleeves up to the elbow. Several cuts had bitten into his skin.

Sherlock felt some of his annoyance fade away. “They had a knife?”

“No, worse,” Lestrade winced. “Fingernails. They really went for it.”

“You need a jab.”

“I know. I’ll clean it up, first.”

Sherlock sat himself opposite, and took out the box of plasters. “What happened?”

Lestrade told him the story, as much as there was to it. “…anyway, I drew my gun and they ran for it. I don’t know if John even saw. He folded up on the floor and went… a bit weird. Shock, I think.”

Sherlock passed Lestrade the plasters. “You saved him.”

“I guess.” Lestrade stuck a plaster onto his arm. “If he hadn’t been pregnant, he’d’ve had no trouble.”

“He shouldn’t have been on his own…” Sherlock ruffled his hair in annoyance. It needed washing. “But why shouldn’t he be, and he’s a grown man…”

“He’s an expecting omega with no mate,” Lestrade said. His hands were still bleeding gently. “Smells like one, looks like one… I thought he’d get a bit of hassle, but nothing like that.”

“If they’d bitten him…”

Lestrade looked up, and the two alphas shared an uncomfortable look.

Then, Lestrade clicked his tongue. “What bothers you about that, though?”

“…what?”

“John gets bitten, loses his baby… what about that scenario bothers you?” Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say _Because John would be devastated_ , then shut it again. _Because the baby would be gone_ , he thought. _Because it would be dead. Because John’s baby would be dead. Because…_

Lestrade watched this internal wrangling for a moment. “Did you think about the baby?” he asked. “Or just John?”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t… both. It’s important to…”

Lestrade waited. “To… John? Or to you?”

Sherlock flipped the lid closed on the first aid box.

Lestrade sighed. “Because if the only reason you’re holding off on John is you’re worried about having to deal with another alpha’s baby… Sherlock… you’re already concerned about it.”

“Human concern. Hardly parental.”

“You think that’ll be a great leap once it arrives? You think you’ll just see it as another human? Not someone you care about?”

“I…” Sherlock stopped as the sound of John’s shower clunked off. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

Lestrade shook his head. “You’re a coward.” He stood. “Thanks for the plasters. Tell John I’ve gone to the station for a jab and to make a report. If he wants me, he can give me a ring.” He looked at Sherlock. “John’s not interested in me, and that’s fine. I’ll get over it. But how long do you think he’s going to wait for you, Sherlock? How much longer do you need to make up your mind?”

“John isn’t waiting for me to do anything,” Sherlock snapped.

“Really.” Lestrade shook his head. “Someone ought to bash your heads together, I swear. Because that baby will be here before you know it. And neither of you are ready.”


	13. Chapter 13

John had a cry in the shower. It wasn’t even a proper cry – just tears leaking out and running down his face without any effort whatsoever. He stood under the water and let them come, feeling relief more than anything else.

He was safe.

He was.

But god, if Lestrade hadn’t been there….

He scrubbed his hands over his face, rubbing the salt of his tears into his skin before washing it away.

It wouldn’t happen again. Next time, he’d be more careful. Or just do all his shopping online.

He got out of the shower, scrubbed clean, and wrapped himself in a towel. He went over to the mirror and gave his face a good looking-at. Slightly red eyes, but nothing he couldn’t pretend was from the steam. It wasn’t like him to cry.

He sighed.

Before being pregnant, he hadn’t cried in years. It was something he’d crushed down deep inside himself, and almost forgotten how to do. It wasn’t like a beta or an alpha man to cry, so John tried not to. He was turning into a real cry-baby, now. Another omega thing he was brandishing. John ran a hand over his chest, feeling the pectoral muscle he’d worked so hard on maintaining beginning to disappear and give way to soft fat. He was almost melting.

It was so bloody unfair.

“…John’s not interested in me, and that’s fine. I’ll get over it. But how long do you think he’s going to wait for you, Sherlock?”

John turned at the sound of Greg’s raised voice. He edged over to the door, and listened.

“John isn’t waiting…” Sherlock. Sounding cross.

 _Not waiting? What am I not waiting for?_ John frowned.

Greg’s voice had lowered, so John could barely make it out. “…that baby will be here before you... And neither of you are ready.”

 _Well, that’s the truth_ , he thought, bitterly. _I’m not ready, Sherlock’s in denial, and there’s thirteen weeks to go. Are we still going to be dancing around this issue at Christmas?_ He opened the door a crack. “Sherlock, can you grab me some pyjamas, or something? I came in here without any spare clothes.”

“What? Oh – yes…” there was the sound of the chair scraping over the floor, and footsteps upstairs.

John assumed Greg must have already gone. He leaned against the sink, and watched his round stomach pop into sight as his towel slid down. There was a single silvery stretch-mark beside his navel. He ran a finger over it in disgust.

“Here you go,” Sherlock opened the door slightly and stuck his hand through the gap.

“Thanks,” John took the offered loungewear. “Greg gone?”

“Yes, he wanted to make a report. He says not to worry about the jacket.”

“It won’t kill me to have it dry-cleaned.” John pulled the clothes on and hung his towel up. He went out into the kitchen, and smiled at the sight of Sherlock making tea.

The alpha gave him a wary smile. “Are you… alright?”

 _No._ “As much as I can be, I suppose.” John went to sit in his armchair, grateful for the softness and the excuse to rest. “Not exactly a fun day out,” he called.

“I imagine not.” Sherlock stirred the mugs before bringing them over. A scent of rut still clung to him, and John covered his involuntary sharp inhale with a cough as he took the drink.

“Thanks.”

“Not at all…” Sherlock took his opposite chair, and there was a moment of quiet as they tried to sip too-hot drinks.

John looked at Sherlock, and gave a little smile. “You must be one of a kind,” he said suddenly. “You’re actually in rut, and sitting drinking tea like everything’s fine.”

“As opposed to you, who spent the afternoon being… and you’re sitting drinking tea like everything’s fine,” Sherlock countered.

They smirked at one another, though briefly.

Sherlock sighed. “I should have gone with you.”

“No,” John shook his head. “No, I don’t need to be chaperoned.”

“But still. You’re an om – only parent,” Sherlock plunged awkwardly onwards, “and it’s not fair to expect you to… I mean, carrying bags alone on the most basic level…”

John shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ll do the rest of it online.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

“I know I shouldn’t have to,” John said. “But it’s not my fault. It’s society’s.” He looked back at his tea. “But I appreciate the offer. Did Greg tell you to say that?”

“Not precisely,” Sherlock said. “He did say I ought to make more of an effort…” he paused, as if thinking. “He… had some opinions.”

John didn’t bother asking what they were. Just hummed, and put his cup down. The baby was taking the opportunity of being warm to spread-eagle inside him and poke their limbs in every direction.

Sherlock, however, cleared his throat. “A-hm… I did want to ask… if there was anything I can… do.”

“Do?” John looked up.

“To help you. With… this.”

John was tempted to ask for a massage and a martini. Or a night of unbridled passion. But he shook his head. “I think I’m fine, thanks. Oh,” he brightened. “Actually. There is something you could do for me.”

“What is it?”

 

***

 

“I cannot believe I agreed to this.” Sherlock looked as though he was trying very hard to drop dead. “This is hell,” he hissed.

“This is hardly hell,” John said. He pointed at the picture on the presentation. “That, however, is definitely hell.” He looked around for an escape route.

The other people at the antenatal class were all couples. Mostly alphas and omegas, but at least two alpha-beta pairs that John could make out. He and Sherlock would hopefully pass as a bonded pair so long as no one asked John to take off his polo-neck. Fortunately, the room wasn’t too warm.

“Good evening, everyone,” a beaming midwife came in, carrying the sort of plastic pelvis John recognised from his medical training days. “How are we all?”

There were happy noises from the couples, and some dark muttering from John and Sherlock.

“Now, you’re all here to discuss options for birth, and to learn about what’s involved. Before we start, does anyone have any really urgent questions?”

John felt Sherlock start to raise a hand, and yanked his arm down by the sleeve. “Don’t you dare,” he whispered.

Sherlock sighed.

The midwife went over to the presentation. “Now, this is obviously a woman giving birth. Let’s compare it to a man doing the same.” She pressed a button, and another image popped up beside the first.

John felt his life flash before his eyes. “Oh Christ…”

“Now, as you can see, the most obvious difference is purely anatomical. The location of the birth canal, you see? However, both parties are equally capable of delivering naturally, and without too much fuss.” She clicked her button again and the images changed to show a baby most definitely crowning.

John was extremely glad he was sitting down. Beside him, Sherlock’s elbow slid off the arm of the chair.

“Looks extreme, yes, but remember that this is a crucial part of birthing. At this point, a midwife will likely tell the mother not to push, or risk an injury.”

“Injury?” Sherlock asked, loudly.

The midwife looked at him. “Oh, yes. Pushing at this point can result in a tear, you see.”

John watched Sherlock’s face go through half a dozen emotions, none of them good. “I see,” he said.

“Now, let’s watch a couple of videos of the actual process, shall we?”

John took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock squeezed it tight. Some things you just needed a hand to hold in order to get through.

 

***

 

“That was an experience,” Sherlock said, when they were finally dismissed. He was carrying a bag full of the leaflets and equipment and toys John had been given on the way out.

John didn’t say anything. He felt quite in shock.

“I thought, on the whole, the caesarean looked the least terrifying,” Sherlock went on. “The water one just looked ridiculous. And the bed –”

“I don’t think I can do this,” John said.

Sherlock stopped, and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…. Mentally. Physically. Whatever. I…” he shook his head. “That was awful. I really don’t think I can…” he had an urge to cover his crotch. “It’s like, there’s no other way for it to come out, is there?” He knew his eyes looked a bit wild, but he didn’t care. “It’s got to happen, and I can’t even choose when!”

Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder. “If those awful couples in that room can handle it, so can we.”

John looked up at him.

Sherlock smiled. “Did you see those two in the corner? They were kissing when the nurse was talking about painkillers. Something isn’t right, there.”

“No,” John said. “I…”

“John, you’ve been through battle and hell and god knows what else. This… it’s just going to be something that happens. A day out of your life. And then you can forget it.”

John didn’t know what to say. “It’s not just a day, though, is it?” he asked, after a pause. “It’s… the first day. Of forever.”

Sherlock considered. “I meant. The actual… process.”

“I know. But it’s not that simple. It’s…” John took a breath. “It’s like being born, and everyone around you insisting you’re purple. You know you’re not, because you can see yourself, and you know yourself. And everyone is wrong. But they keep saying it. And eventually, you sort of forget you are, because you’re so good at dressing up in other colours. And everyone else forgets as well. Until, one day, you don’t fit in the other colours anymore, and everyone says you’re purple again, and you’re always going to be.” He shook his head. “I’m not making sense, am I?”

“I think I understand,” Sherlock said. “You think that, once the baby is here, people will only ever see you as an omega, correct?”

John nodded.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “I don’t.”

“Yeah, you and who else?” John said.

“…does anyone else matter?”

John’s mouth, opened ready to argue again, snapped shut. “Wh-what?”

“Does it matter what anyone else thinks? You know you’re more than whatever pot-luck gender you draw, and so do I. Lestrade does. The people who know you don’t care. They don’t… care.”

John felt something hot and full pressing against his ribcage. “Right.”

Sherlock adjusted his stance. “I don’t know much about… anything. And I’m sorry I was useless in that class, but…”

John’s heart leapt.

“…but I want you to know that…”

He held his breath.

“…you’re the only person who’s ever stuck around with me for this long. And Lestrade doesn’t count. You’re the only one who’s… stayed. So, the least I can do for you is the same.”

John’s heart clanged to the floor like a stone. He covered it with a smile. “Thanks. For sticking around, I guess.”

“And I really don’t mind about the baby. In the flat.”

“Good, because I don’t think anywhere else is going to have me,” John forced a laugh. “You’re stuck with me – us – now.”

They looked at each other in the cold night air. Sherlock’s nose was ever so slightly pink. John wanted to press a palm to it, to feel how cold it was. Oh _god_ , he was in far too deep. This was a disaster. How had it come to this?

Sherlock glanced away, first. He cleared his throat. “I, er… we should get back. It’s getting brisk.”

“Yeah.” John put his hands back into his coat pockets. “Get home and warm up, eh?”

“…yes.”

 

***

 

It wasn’t until they got home, and John was hanging up his coat, that he realised something.

“Sherlock,” he turned, and looked up at Sherlock, who was halfway up the stairs.

“Yes?”

“You said… ‘we’.”

“Pardon?”

“You said, if they can handle it so can we?” John blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock gripped the banister. “I meant… the two of us… here… and with the…”

“Did you.” John stepped forward. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned pink, like his nose. “I don’t –”

“What – what is it you _want_?” John asked. “Do you even know? Do you even –” his words were cut off as Sherlock galloped down the stairs and planted a kiss straight onto his mouth.

John pushed him away. “Sherlock!”

“I thought – ”

“No!” John wiped his mouth. “You can’t just kiss me and expect this conversation to stop! Christ, haven’t we messed up enough by running before we can walk?” He took a steadying breath. “Do you want to be part of this, or do you just want me, because we are a package deal. Got it? You can’t have one without the other, and you just don’t seem to be –” John stopped, mid-rant, as Sherlock put a hand to his bump.

His mind went completely blank.

The baby kicked in delight, and a rush of hormones made John’s knees almost buckle.

“What…. You doing?” he managed to slur.

“I would have thought it was obvious.” Sherlock moved his fingers. “I can feel it…”

“Sherlock…”

“I want to… try,” Sherlock said, his voice very soft. He scratched at his hair, and a drift of alpha scent his John’s nostrils. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but…”

John put a finger to his lips. “That’s enough.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

John smiled. “Trying is enough. For now.”

Sherlock smiled back, against his finger.

John took it away. “You can kiss me again, if you like.” He shrugged.

Sherlock looked as though he was thinking about it. Then shook his head. “No,” he said, a wicked look in his eye, “I don’t feel like it, now.”

“You bastard!”

“I might feel like it upstairs, though,” the alpha added. “If you wanted to find out.” He trotted up the staircase and disappeared.

John stood open-mouthed in the hallway. “Oh, you git,” he made a fist. “You absolute git. I’m going to fucking _ruin_ you.” And he made for the stairs with determination.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A big chat about gender and identity...

The last of the summer heat was extinguished entirely by the middle of October, and the cold came rushing in. Autumn started properly almost over the course of one weekend, and John found himself not the only one in knitwear, for a change. He was woken every morning by the ancient pipes of the heating system groaning into life to warm the radiators, and he was finding it more and more difficult to justify getting out of bed at a reasonable hour.

It often depended whose bed he was in.

Sherlock and John hadn’t exactly rolled straight back into bed with one another. After their mutually-agreed attempt to ‘try’, there had been what John called ‘a cheerful fumble’ on the sofa, and Sherlock had come in his trousers. And after that… it was as though neither of them dared to make the first move. And… sex didn’t seem like the most important thing, either.

They were still trying to work out how to fit together.

They were an alpha who had spent a lifetime ignoring his instincts, and an omega who would do anything to forget that he was one. John’s morning routine involved a moment of despair in front of the mirror at how badly, in his eyes, his body had changed. And that was without trying to build a relationship with his flatmate.

Sherlock’s alpha instincts were no match for John’s pig-headedness and his unwillingness to do what omegas usually did. Sherlock’s efforts to scent John (although they were meant with genuine affection) were met were bristly dislike, and when they did find themselves snogging in the kitchen, Sherlock had to be very mindful about where he put his hands. John’s bump was a no-go, but so was his arse, his wrists, his neck, and other places depending on his mood. John later admitted that if he wasn’t pregnant he might be more willing to be touched, but it seemed that any reminder of the fact made him uneasy.

Not that the bump could be ignored at all, anymore.

John’s running days were well and truly over, as Sherlock discovered as he found himself alone in the middle of a case-turned-chase, one evening. He found John back with Lestrade, looking rather embarrassed.

“You didn’t need to come back,” he said.

“I know,” Sherlock sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Hardly the most pressing of cases, anyway.”

Lestrade made an _are you joking_ face. “Sherlock – he murdered his landlord.”

“And I’m certain a great many Londoners will sympathise,” Sherlock shrugged. John hid a grin behind his hand. “Come on, Lestrade, you can’t tell me this is the most interesting thing you’ve got.”

“It’s the most interesting thing I’ve got whilst John is on the case,” he said.

John scowled. “It’s not a disability, Greg.”

“No, it’s your safety. And wow if I don’t seem to be the only one concerned about it.” He marched off in a huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he went to shout at some of the junior officers.

“He’s been on one all day,” John said, ignoring Sherlock’s offered hand as he got to his feet. “He’d rather I wasn’t here. And don’t you dare say you agree with him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock said mildly. “Since our suspect has absconded, however, I seem to remember there’s other difficult tasks need completing at Baker Street.”

John groaned. “Oh god. Really?”

“We’ve got to do it at some point.”

“But it’s so hard!” John wailed, then laughed. “Alright. But this time you can do the screwing.”

 

*

 

There was finally baby furniture in John’s bedroom. A tiny cot, and a changing table that doubled as a chest of drawers. After realising there was no room to actually get around the room, John’s old chest of drawers had been thrown out. He and the baby could share. How many outfits could it possibly need, after all?

As it happened, the drawers were still empty, aside from the little white sleepsuit Sherlock had bought weeks ago.

John sat on the edge of his bed and read, again, the card his sister had sent him. He’d had to tell her, even if he had chickened out of doing it in person. He called the only number he had for her, and left a message. She’d called him back a few days later, from another number altogether. John didn’t other asking why. If he hadn’t told her she was going to be an aunt, she had ever right to keep her life from him, as well.

She’d taken the news rather blandly, and cut the conversation short, claiming she had to do something.

The card had arrived a few days later, along with a parcel of simple baby vests.

John turned the card over in his hands, again. The edges were starting to get rather soft.

There was a knock, and he looked up at Sherlock, standing in the doorway. “Oh… hey.”

“Are you alright?” Sherlock didn’t come in. “You’ve been quiet. I thought you might be asleep.”

John forced a smile. “No, just… reading Harry’s card.”

Sherlock hesitated, then came carefully into the room and sat beside John. “Did she write something dreadful in it?” he asked.

“No, she was fine, really,” John handed him the card to look at. “I guess she can’t really be too mad at my decisions when you think about where she’s ended up, several times. It’s just… the card.”

Sherlock looked at it, a tiny frown growing between his eyebrows. The paper was yellow, and shiny, with a white bassinet on the front, and a stork flying a bundle towards it. The words ‘Mum To Be’ were embossed above the illustration. It looked like any other card in the world. He looked back at John. “Is it so bad?”

“It’s…” John cringed. He felt as if his chest had a great weight on it. “It’s probably just me being crazy.”

“I doubt it. You’re usually incredibly logical.”

John snorted. Sherlock’s leg pressed against his, and felt incredibly welcome. “It’s difficult to explain.” He took the card back. “It’s like… my whole life, I’ve been able to trick everyone into thinking I’m something I’m not. And when the truth came out… no one really carried on treating me like they had before. Except you,” he added, blushing.

Sherlock stroked a finger down John’s thigh. “You worry that being a parent is all they will see you as. You’ve said this before.”

“Not a parent – a mother,” John said, and winced. “When I was a – when everyone _thought_ I was a beta,” he corrected himself, “then I was a soldier, and a doctor, and a friend… now it’s… this,” he tapped his belly, “is the only thing people are interested in. If I was it’s father, I’d still be allowed to have a normal life. It’s like… the life I had before is going to be covered up.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then reached over. He took the card from John’s hand, and put it down before clasping his hand tight. “You,” he said, “are not this experience. You are not this, and nothing else. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“I’ll still be…. _Mummy_ ,” John drawled, to hide how much the word soured in his voice.

Sherlock heard it anyway. “It’s the title you hate.”

“Not hate, just… is that really me? Is that….” John looked around the room as he searched for the right words. His eye fell on  one of the framed photographs of him in uniform. He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. “That felt like me,” he nodded at the picture. “This feels like it’s happening to someone else. At the classes they say talk to the baby, and bond with it before it’s born, but I don’t do that. I don’t even like it when it moves about, and you’re meant to find that magical. It’s disturbing. I don’t… feel like this is me.” He looked at Sherlock. “Isn’t that awful?”

Sherlock just held his hand, as he thought. John watched his face, as if he could maybe get a clue about the alpha’s thoughts if he stared hard enough. All he could see were Sherlock’s pale eyes, the line of his jaw, the hook of his nose. Despite his mood, a tiny spark of happiness prickled under John’s skin. Happiness, and hope.

Eventually, Sherlock spoke. “I think a lot of things in life are over-romanticised,” he said. “Finding a relationship, bonding, babies… It seems to me that those things are romanticised, and made to seem like they’re more wonderful than they actually are, is because, really, they’re difficult. And painful.”

“Even relationships?”

“Come on, John. Think about it. Alphas are told from the moment they present that they have to be strong and dominating and able to provide. Omegas are told to be submissive and gentle, to be their opposite. And betas, though they might have some freedoms, are still a social class below their counterparts. There’s so much weight of expectation, no matter your gender, that finding a bond-mate has to be seen as something desirable. Heaven forbid you shouldn’t want to pass on your genes, or act outside of what you have been taught to think of as the norm.”

John nodded. “And when you do, you’re a….”

“Freak,” Sherlock finished for him, echoing an insult that John had heard muttered around the Yard a few times.

They were quiet again, for a moment.

“I never wanted to bond with an omega,” Sherlock said softly. “I never had the flash of lust, or love, that gets talked about. I saw having a bond as being forced to give up my freedoms, and… a lot of people found that difficult to understand. Even Mycroft, and he thinks the same way. I think he wanted for me what he didn’t find for himself.”

“But you’re comfortable being an alpha?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Being an alpha means I don’t have to think about being one. That’s my privilege. I don’t have to consider my identity at all, because it doesn’t prevent me from doing a single thing.”

John looked down at himself, still holding Sherlock’s hand. “Do you think it’s normal not to love your baby?”

“I think it’s normal not to love someone you haven’t met yet.”

John pulled a face. “I’m glad you think so. None of the books seem to think it’s a great sign.” He sighed, and let go of Sherlock’s hand, and leaned back on his elbows, his round stomach making his jumper ride up to expose a strip of skin.

Sherlock’s eyes rested for a moment on the bare flesh, before he turned to look John in the face. “Have you thought of names?” He asked, brightly.

“Names…” John felt a stab of guilt. “No, actually.”

“I read that having a name in mind can help foster a bond,” Sherlock said. Then his eyes sparkled. “What about William, for a boy?”

“Har har,” John mock-scowled. “I know your full name. And I’ve seen your passport, you can’t fool me.”

“It was worth a try,” Sherlock grinned.

John smiled back. “I hope it is a boy,” he said. “Better chance of not being an omega.” His smile faltered a little as he glanced at Sherlock. “Sherlock…” _I’m really scared_ , he wanted to say. _I’m so fucking scared of this. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, or what’s going to happen, and I don’t even know if telling you this might scare you away._

Sherlock moved up the bed to lie next to John, facing him.

John looked down at him, enjoying how Sherlock hadn’t chosen to lean over him.

Sherlock gave a sad smile. “If you weren’t afraid, I’d think you were mad.”

“Who says I’m afraid?” John said, too quickly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He sat up, and quickly cupped John’s face with a hand, and kissed him on the cheek. “You should be what you want to be,” he said. “No matter what anyone else thinks. When this is over… this physical part, I mean… you don’t have to give yourself any label that makes you uncomfortable.”

John blinked, rapidly. “But… no one’s going to accept calling a – a – calling me a dad,” he said. Even as he said it, he felt stupid.

“No one at all?” Sherlock’s eyebrows stayed up.

John conceded. “Alright, maybe a _few_ –”

“And who else matters?”

John shook his head in disbelief. “You’d actually think it was fine if I made the baby call me Daddy, when it can talk?”

“If that’s who you are, that’s what it should call you.” Sherlock dropped his hand down. “Anything else would just be a lie, wouldn’t it?”

“But… I’m not…”

“You said this isn’t you,” Sherlock said. “It doesn’t have to be, for much longer. Go back on hormones. Do what you did before, and… be a father, as much as anyone can tell.”

John stared at him. “But if I do that, then…”

“Then what?”

John bit his lip before answering. “Then I’ll always smell like a beta. Always look like one, as much as I can. Always pass as one ninety-nine times out of a hundred. I won’t be an omega, Sherlock. And I’ll have none of the…. omega-ness that comes with that. Is that… can you stomach that?”

Sherlock stared back, before letting out a breathy single laugh. “You still think I am only building a relationship with you because of your gender? Oh, John…” he gave a smile. “It isn’t your gender I want. Not your hormones, or your scent, or anything like that. If they go away… you’ll still be the man who walked into the lab at Bart’s months ago. Still John Watson. Who I… want to be with.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s shirt front, and kissed him hard, so their teeth collided before they slotted together in a devouring, tasting, stamp-like kiss of ownership. Sherlock held his shoulders as John tightened his fingers around the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Are you sure you’re an alpha?” he managed to slur as they broke apart for breath.

“Sometimes, no,” Sherlock said as their kisses resumed. “Is that bad?”

“No,” John gasped as he went for Sherlock’s shirt buttons. “No, it’s fucking perfect.”


End file.
